Fruit Tree

The fruit tree. Twilight, soon it will be dark, sparrows are flying back, god knows where they have been. A flock meet in my plum tree, there is livid arguing, who is going sit where. My tree doesn’t bear crops, yet it is a fruit tree, my neighbour says so. I’m a plum tree too grew up tall and stylish women flocked around me, I married five times ... and not a bloody plum. Grey trunk, limp leaves and when dusk comes no one sits on my twigs; I have to invent stories of plums I never had. Fine plums, juicy plums all of them females that never matured and left me alone to fend for myself in time of solitude. Night, and in my heart there a is longing for the unfeasible.