VERONICA VICKERY

I was gifted the apple tree. Planted above the pram, its boughs flicker the sky. I stroked it, held it. Dappled shade and the breeze of promises, offering rest.
It was chopped down.

Here. A pile of packing boxes and picture windows frame my view.

There. With the flutter of anxiety she parked up. Glancing through the window, Deidre heard chatter, the sound of pots and pans, the patter of small feet. A clap of thunder broke her dream.

Nowhere and everywhere. The view turns with weather clouds passing over distant furze streaked moorland. I unpack my boxes. And plant another tree.

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