a moment under the mulberry tree

I have come here to write, strung between an old fruit free and a new fruit tree, in heavy blue and red canvas, swinging in syncopation, because i want a conclusion. I want to write something solid to stem the sadness. To attenuate the frustration.

We have such beautiful trees here. If I tilt my head to one side, all I can see are trees. Different shades of red and green.

If I look up I can see a bower of mulberry leaves, the sun peeks through when the leaves get blown about by a desultory summer breeze. The fleeting warmth makes me sleepy.

I used to come here when I was younger, the deep dark womb of our garden, and climb this mulberry tree. Fresh faced and dreamy I would stand on the platform Dad built and cling to the branches that would sway threateningly in the wind. The wind, the heavy back and forth of the branches would make my heart race. I would read, i would watch the sunrise, when I was thinking about an idea of God I would come here to see if faith would present itself to me. I named this tree at one point. I cant remember what, surely it involved alliteration. I had named all my favourite trees.