Cherry Trees on Hill 62, Full Sun
Nourished on flesh and earth-cracked bone,
they want to touch the sweltering sky.
Trunks thicker than mules trudging through
mud; roots deeper than night. They grip
the repeated slag-ridge where men
tunnelled only to be blown aside. Is it a finger
I see bearing fruit? Are those bark eyes
straining to turn? Heat-haze shimmers around
loaded branches. Dawn’s touch will
burst the scab-red skins.