The Mango Tree

Although I have long been away, I can still see

The canopy of green fingers tickling the clouds

And the saffron-yellow orbs of our mango tree

Dangling by such slender stalks from its laden boughs.

We were so young when we smoothed the bark with our feet

Firm in convictions that a tree so generous

Could never refuse us its ripe children to eat

For, if it could, it would feed even Tantalus.

The frequent sticky thrill of that first bite of fruit

While propped against the tree trunk, kept cool in the shade

My brother beside me, companiable but mute

Remains a vivid memory of my childhood days.

Now far from home, I wonder if new children might

Monkey-like prance from branch to branch, preserving those

Old childhood traditions of tree climbing delight

Fruit eating and the inevitably ripped clothes.

Or does the mango tree solitarily stand

Still constant, fruit-laden, generous and sun-browned

Golden, swollen mangoes unpicked by childish hands

Giving a final dull thud as they fall to the ground.