Plum tree

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Plum tree

Our plum tree lived by the outside privy
Each as ancient as the other.
I propped the tree with a crooked branch. 
Our outhouse was kept up by ivy. 
The centre of the tree had been long gone
Hollowed first by rot and then by wind and rain.
Only scraps of twisted bark remained
To hold the trunk together.
Yet each autumn it gave us fruit as if a flush
Of youth restored its vigour. Victoria plums; they were
Lush and yellow, and when first picked, a tender blush
Of peachy hue you could rub off with a finger.
We ate them straight from the tree, skins resisting
The teeth for an instant only before we were biting
Into the flesh, savouring its juice and its sweetness.
Each year we marvelled that the tree still stood
And blessed us with its richness. Until one year
It seemed it knew its time had come. 
Perhaps to thank us both for leaving it alone,
It gifted us a bounty, a plenty to remember,
One last, loaded summer before the sheer
Weight of its abundance brought it down. 
An unruly gale felled it in September. 
Now that in my ninth decade, I have found
An unexpected and I hope, a generous harvest, 
Will I be like that plum tree, able to give of my very best?
Not mournful stuff crabbed with regret for the past 
But tempered meditation on the present, to the very last?
And will its skin of printed words yield to your gentle voice
To reveal the inner flesh of feeling? And what will hold me up
For that final, farewell season when rough weather brings me to the ground?