Elinor Clark

The crows returned to the other tree

And I fit my things into cupboards full of other people’s lives,

mismatched mugs, mixed herbs

expired five years ago.

Still, I want to leave my mark, not think of who this room

belonged to before me.

Across the road a crow glares from a rooftop and I wonder

where its tree went. When I was five

I planted a tree in our garden

and called it mine.

That summer, all the trees on our street

were marked for slaughter,

ribbons tied around their waists.

A company said they planted a thousand trees

for every thousand burnt.

But crows plant more trees than us.

I wonder who owns a tree

conceived by accident.

I learn to make my space around the clutter.

I thank the crow.

Outside my flat is a tree.

On my way home, I untie its ribbon.

Place it in the cupboard

for the next owner.