Some poems ambush us like the news. That’s how I felt a year ago after hearing that a beloved old tree—an iconic sycamore growing along Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland, England—had been cut down in an act of vandalism.
At the time, I was participating in a two-day workshop with US poet, Judyth Hill. And in my anguish upon learning that not only had the tree been razed, but a 16-year-old boy had been taken in for questioning, I dropped the assigned work (with my teacher’s blessing) and wrote the poem that wanted to come through.
Since drafting this piece, both the teenager, and a 60-something man who was arrested with him, have been cleared of charges. While so far no one has been convicted, two other men now face trial for criminal damage.
In light of the year of atrocities we’ve continued to witness, I’ve decided to let this poem stand as is. While the “boy” imagined here does NOT represent the individual originally detained, let this invented youth—based on whoever took a chainsaw to that tree—point to a few central questions of our time.
When does “criminal damage” begin inside a human being? How do we stop it? And why do we persist in focusing at the level of effects in our world, rather than on the deeper causes of violence and suffering? How can we take steps to heal collective, systemic trauma?
I believe we yearn for wonder, and that our yearning is a compass pointing us to new possibilities. I believe our sense of wonder leads to hope.
Writing this poem took me there, if only for a moment, revealing something I hadn’t anticipated.
Sycamore Gap
I I seem to be a woman writing at a small desk, but really, I am a yellow finch trilling, bobbing, spearing light— then bell-peal sadness, raven’s call for the tree felled at Hadrian’s Wall. Cold green hand, la mano, el arpa not sounding, just discordant metal— rustle-flutter, buzz-saw, bang— no childhood game from that child no Yahtzee, helium balloons, anemone-sensing. Almost full, the moon, when the tree came down and someone heard. I seem to be an agitated older woman with a manicure, scribbling, prisming something through a pen, seem to be purposeful, but really, I am Gerda chasing Kai—blustery tempest in the chest, scratches, derecho-wretched scorch-brain ire and blister that a child became that killer no red-shoe calling card, no faithful consort, feminine seeking the boy with ice in his heart and eye to die like that, boy and tree. Ochre shavings, sap-drying silence. Tourmaline unavailable today. I used to be one equals many, but today I am cut off, thank you, merci— irony, a fox scamper. I seem to be seeking not to calm myself, but to push, hands out— cast out the sickness. Barn owl and snowflake silence, unavailable. I seem to be composed, but really I throb with shimmer-branch stark execution— no velvet, chocolate, mint tea, euphemisms, or even compassion. Rage at my small desk fells me. II Who are you? I have to face you. No ostriching now, no dive in the Seine, the Gatineau, the Ganges. Who are you really? Someone who entered bawling, crawling, pulling yourself up to stand. If I could take your hand, I’d be warm and light as a butterfly kiss to know what did this to you. Who? Emily Carr swirl on a page, in a womb, some marvellous willing surrender smoke around you, fire and moon, the common miracles. Were you born on a Wednesday? On an afternoon? Did someone hold you, Himalaya strong and rooted? Oh, were you rooted? Did you feel soft water at your base, the platinum firmness of a mother, purple-aster swaddling? What Pleiades of brain and bite and crisis brought you down? No nectarine spray— sweet-bitter life to stop the burn in you, a blackened mind. Why? What kind of shoe kicked you in the head? And press of urgency— white plastic, familiar, blind, no eagle feather, just blaze. It took courage to do what you did. I need to face you, the one cut off, hold a span of mauve light to bring you home to yourself, bring you back, severed trunk, uplift you— see you rooted again. © Robin Blackburn McBride
What’s ahead: For paid subscribers, the Wonders Within video series begins this Sunday, September 29th (8:00 a.m. EDT) with Talk One — Wings for Dreaming: How to Receive, Write, and Soar with Your Creative Vision. For all subscribers, look for my next newsletter on Friday, October 11th.
"what did this to you.
Who?"
I hear desperation in your voice for answers, Robin... a heartfelt poem beautifully expressed. For me, like Schroeder's cat, the tree is neither alive nor dead and is an observation of what IS. 💗🌳💗
Beautiful. And the good news is that a number of seedlings from this tree are now healthy and growing, and will be planted in some very special places in the UK 🌱💚