I asked him to cut back the tree
and so let in the light.
I heard the axe thud, saw branches
that once bore mulberries fall.
The erythrina below, struggling for so long in shadow
gulped sun like a thirsty child.
Its thorns glinted fierce as secateurs,
needling a flutter of new green leaves, unsteady hearts.
His half-day’s work done,
he dressed in the shed,
took my folded fifty rand note, proud.
He looked up as I shut the gates, waved, was gone.
