Poem by Peter Spafford about his chance meeting in 1989 with the playwright Christopher Fry, and an ancient yew tree.
lyrics
Once I met a tree, a yew planted in Caedmon`s century,
Walked its span, conjuring stories held in the dark scope of its memory,
Then lived a while and forgot about the tree
Till years later, back in the same southern county,
Staying in a borrowed house, writing, earnestly.
A storm had blown. A man outside was clearing debris.
’Famous writer’, he said. ‘Proper one, lives nearby’.
I knew the name from school; drama in verse set in history.
Full of cock I knocked at his door, invited myself for tea.
The old man humoured his visitor, showed me his desk in the study
And talked; the craft of writing, life, mortality.
Listened too, was gracious. Perhaps he was lonely.
I told him I was writing, gave him a draft of my play.
He read it; liked it, or said he did, commented kindly,
And gave me his new one: ‘Caedmon`, it was called (Father of English poetry).
Driving home, I passed through the village of the ancient yew tree,
Parked up, glimpsing the shavings, the trunk sawn brutally.
Down, blown down in the storm, they told me.
I stood for a while then hacked a branch from the ruin of its body
And sent to the playwright a sprig from the yew seeded in Caedmon`s century.
Alive still, I wrote, and for planting, a crooked line of English poetry.
credits
from Hope of a Tree,
released March 1, 2023
Words: Spafford. Guitar: Richard Ormrod. Music: Richard Ormrod. Production: Richard Ormrod.
Welcome in Schwa: Peter Spafford writes poetry and plays the piano; Richard Ormrod plays other instruments and arranges tunes. More recently, Jacqui Wicks sings and plays the ukulele.
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