Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Peter Skrzynecki

Red Trees

Red Trees

Red Trees

Impossible not to see them
once you cross the railway bridge
and enter Memorial Avenue—
the rows of red trees
along the cemetery’s perimeter:

maples, claret ash, liquid ambers—
cotoneasters where rosellas
hang upside-down and feast
on berries like clots of blood.

The breath of next month’s winter
hangs over them already
but they seem intent on proving
that winter is a lie—
that neither winds nor frosts
are permanent afflictions
and disappear as quickly as they arrive.

A family that I once boarded with
at Jeogla lies buried
beside these trees—mother, father,
son, grandmother:
all “born and bred” in New England
where I came to work
and left when the work was done—
where I once considered
settling down but didn’t
for reasons I still can’t explain.

The mother dead at ninety-three years of age,
the father at seventy;
grandmother at eighty-five
and the son at twenty-four.
On his headstone
it reads, “Accidentally killed
16th February 1972.”
All of them buried
In Loving Memory Of.
What can I do but pray ?
Or be content to live on the memory of a single day
when we sat down and ate a meal together ?

The wind pauses
and brings a moment’s peace—
but still leaves my questions unanswered
hanging from the branches of red trees.

Leaving a ground strewn
with decaying leaves
I leave Memorial Avenue
and walk back towards the railway bridge.
Close

Red Trees

Impossible not to see them
once you cross the railway bridge
and enter Memorial Avenue—
the rows of red trees
along the cemetery’s perimeter:

maples, claret ash, liquid ambers—
cotoneasters where rosellas
hang upside-down and feast
on berries like clots of blood.

The breath of next month’s winter
hangs over them already
but they seem intent on proving
that winter is a lie—
that neither winds nor frosts
are permanent afflictions
and disappear as quickly as they arrive.

A family that I once boarded with
at Jeogla lies buried
beside these trees—mother, father,
son, grandmother:
all “born and bred” in New England
where I came to work
and left when the work was done—
where I once considered
settling down but didn’t
for reasons I still can’t explain.

The mother dead at ninety-three years of age,
the father at seventy;
grandmother at eighty-five
and the son at twenty-four.
On his headstone
it reads, “Accidentally killed
16th February 1972.”
All of them buried
In Loving Memory Of.
What can I do but pray ?
Or be content to live on the memory of a single day
when we sat down and ate a meal together ?

The wind pauses
and brings a moment’s peace—
but still leaves my questions unanswered
hanging from the branches of red trees.

Leaving a ground strewn
with decaying leaves
I leave Memorial Avenue
and walk back towards the railway bridge.

Red Trees

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère