On Google Earth I can see
our old van rusting in the yard
and the profusion of honeysuckle
that smothered us with loveliness.
The huge green roof of leaves
is the walnut tree. I know that beneath
it is a bench on which it used to drop
its missiles every autumn.
The termites we ran out one by one
until we discovered a weapon
of mass destruction.
There was some guilt.
When I had breakfast with the wasps
in the fig tree, I knew I belonged.
Then the grapes rotted on the vines
because the gypsies didn’t
turn up for a bumper harvest.
We slipped on fallen olives.
During monsoon-like downpours
every hole in the roof filled our buckets
with rainwater and us with a hard kind of love,
until the tornado ripped a huge branch
from the apple tree leaving an open wound,
and the peach tree broke under
the weight of its fruit.
One day the well ran dry.
Time to move on.
All that’s left is the letter box,
leaning forward like an old, broken man.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and Tangents, a full-length poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the now-defunct Goodreads monthly competition. Recent poetry collections: From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949: A Child’s Journey and Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back. Her latest full-length poetry MS, The Rain Girl, has been accepted for publication in June 2020 by The Blue Nib.