Goodbye to the Cherry Orchard

On a warm fragrant May morning
Anya tiptoes
through her special place,
one hand lifting swishing skirts free of
the soft earth.

My sunshine, my Spring
she thinks,
watching the light
seep through the pinkly speckled canopy
of new-born blossoms.
This is a secret, special moment
soon to be one for the memory box.

She will not walk this flower path again
or feel the days lengthen
in the sun-dappled paradise
of her childhood.
There will be no more late Summer pickings
baskets full of perfect ruby fruit
or sweet illicit cherry feasts.

She turns, stoops to gather a fallen bloom
which she will press between the leaves
of a favourite book.
One last look,
breathe in the scent
breathe out a sigh.

Following her footprints back to the house,
she allows her skirts to swing free,
mindless of the damp on her dainty boots
but mindful of the dampness
on her face.
My sunshine, my Spring,
thinks Anya,
now belongs to someone else
wealthy, uncaring.

Later as she stands in the doorway
waiting to be transported
to an uncertain future,
she hears the axe fall.
They have killed the Cherry Orchard.