By All The Trees They Plant Poem by Mark Heathcote

I map the world by all the trees they plant
the Ginkgo trees near the dental hospital
the Jacarandas around Manchester's town hall
my golden Indian bean tree that's-special.

At least it's special to me; I don't-know-why
I map this world by all the trees they plant
but I never get lost, even if they're bonsai-
small, knee-high - rooted in a crumbling wall.

I remember the gardens I pass, their flowers
the richness of the grass, the foliage colours
I don't care for street signs, sir I-never-have
it's the trees that get me around the suburbs.

The dandelions in the pavement crack
for me, their reference point is my RAC road map
season's here written like the Almanac.
Dear, when I die, plant a tree, piercing the sky.

And heavenly map one star there perhaps
a flower that doesn't fade loses a bloom?
That'll light-a-path for me, and you: bestrewn-
all-fire and perfume; let this be-ours-locale.