THE CLAN OF THE OLD OAKS

Across the road

from the ugly flats where I lived as a girl,

a small square of woodland thrived –

a pocket handkerchief of deep breaths

on the hemline of urbanization.

Augmented by birdsong, squirrel extravaganzas,

and landscaping provided by moles and rabbits,

patient, centennial oak trees

extended accommodating branches

to throngs of mini-Davy Crocketts constructing forts,

which – over time –

evolved into grand multiplex tree villages

accessible only by rope ladder,

and – of course –

restricted to Davy’s privy to the magic password.

Between these grand oak roots,

dolls and parents regularly play-feasted on buttercups and daisies,

served in dainty crockery tea sets.

In the after-hours, love-drunk teenagers

visited this oasis, moseying from base camp to nirvana,

their canoodling sometimes interrupted

by a pelting of acorns

launched by one of the more strait-laced

members of the Clan of Old Oaks,

while the sun chuckled as it slipped behind the mountain.

The oaks are long gone now, evicted by progress.

Smooth parking bays replace the forts,

the rope turned fire escape.

Still, I like to believe

each oak tree flung one last acorn

at the first of the invaders –

a parting shot from

The Clan of Old Oaks