Grandma Was a Cherry Blossom Tree
Grandma was a cherry blossom tree.
The path to her bungalow was covered
in sudden laughter, dollops of homemade soup,
hand sewn teddy bears, plasters on cut knees.
Grandma was a cherry blossom tree.
Her life was the company of others,
the perfect shade of light pink,
over before adult me got to meet her.
Grandma was a cherry blossom tree.
She returns to the world every summer
down country lane walks, in garden BBQs,
in the streets we would’ve loved together.
The path to her bungalow was covered
in sudden laughter, dollops of homemade soup,
hand sewn teddy bears, plasters on cut knees.
Grandma was a cherry blossom tree.
Her life was the company of others,
the perfect shade of light pink,
over before adult me got to meet her.
Grandma was a cherry blossom tree.
She returns to the world every summer
down country lane walks, in garden BBQs,
in the streets we would’ve loved together.
This poem is copyright (©) Carl Burkitt 2025
About the Writer
Carl Burkitt
Carl likes telling tales. He tells long tales, short tales, silly tales, sad tales. He tells them online, behind a mic, in books, in schools, and on the sofa with his young family. His debut kids’ collection, Elephants Sleep in Bunk Beds, was published by Beir Bua in 2021.
