Bumble

A land lost in time runs ruin through a park I know. Steeped in tradition, its tiles play tic-tac-toe through four corners to the central hub. The embodiment of endless possibilities of its worn, rusted arch of etched standard letters beckons. Planted some 25 years ago by summer students gaining credit to higher education, are all but forgotten now – except for the bees.

Hatched in straggling rippled branches, the two flowering crab beckon each morning through rain, calm or sun. Their 48 steps swoop down towards the curb and streeting below. Symbolic of youth, joy, magic and surprise, I have watched their colours turn from Kelly green to nearly fuchsia and white again, as flowers drop.

Explosive in this environment of one lonely street lamp whispering down at dusk, the trees whisper the heirloom of my mother’s garden. Through Sunday mornings of kitchen windows, the old Brownie took the best shots. On tightly closed purple and red buds, dreams were made. Planted and nurtured those many years, the life of one tree meant as much if not more than a houseful of children, for it promised renewal and dependency eternal.

When the blossoms are lit, the tree vibrated- abuzz in the morning light. From any angle or none, the universe in one teacup, its country of followers with dreams enough to dream, fell again and again. These many years later without pruning, blossoms pour forth bending branches near to breaking. Heavy and wet at the 4 o’clock bell, the scent is intoxicating and begs to wonder if heaven is but a myth of matter.

One blustery, stormy day and the bumbles have gone, cool afternoons lend to raspy, ruddy peels and tart crunchy fruit. Pail in hand, the women make pace circles with deep pockets and dark whispers. Early mornings later, a few stragglers remain for the last bit of seasonal nectar, enough to bind in pots for thy Queen readying for the wintering off season.

In the years of walking back and forth through that park, the street from whence I lived, followed behind like a waking dream. My father’s ladder reaches high- spraying caterpillars as the flowering crab is measured for height and girth for prosperity’s sake. And I, a simple storyteller take it all in, finding connections to things past and things yet to be. And for the Bumble leading the way- crossing his figure 8s, is but the sweetest sign of spring.

Copyright Lisa Gray © April 2024