Morning poplars

Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaf and blood at the root
Black bodies swingin’ in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin’ in the poplar trees.

Twenty years or so ago, tree planter James had some leftover poplars. He dropped them by on his way past. Claire and I rammed them in, in a wide arc around the house.

They’re a glorious sight on a sunny winter morning. They seem to be impervious to the wind. And there’s the nice effect where the ones planted lower grow taller, making their tops all roughly parallel.

It’s getting dark when I get back from work. Bill picks me up and we head to Musselburgh where I buy a Yamaha Diversion from Monika. It’s 21 years old, has 67k on the clock, but is very tidy. And, I reckon, a bargain at four hundred quid.

We celebrate with a carry out from Musselburgh’s Kohi Noor, eaten in the vast splendour of the chapel. Bill grumbles eloquently about his ongoing building project, and the state of the world, until it’s time to wind the Divi up again and head over the hill, to bed.