Inspecting the nectarine tree
beside the front gate
I discover green newborn leaves.
The blossoms have almost all fallen,
their brief burst of cocktail pink
now carpets the mulch beneath.
Already I miss their decoration,
though the green heralds fruit to come.
The following day,
I notice the leaf-curl:
fire-coloured convolutions
that threaten the promised crop.
Plucking the twisted leaves
I am briefly sorry to deny
the bacterium’s claim to life.
The next time
I pay close attention to the tree,
the leaves have grown full –
so has the disease – and now,
the branches host clusters of aphid families.
Another breach of national security.
I tweezer a few between my fingers
in ineffectual spite.
Later, I spy ladybirds
feasting on the aphids,
methodically consuming
the tiny insects.
I have taken sides.
The web continues to expand.
There is now a stream of ants
snaking up the branches,
neutral agents
that depend on tree and aphid
while harming neither.
They drink the sweet gems
of clear, bright faeces
as it emerges from the nesting aphids;
and fend off hungry ladybirds in return.
The aphids need the tree
and the ants who protect them;
ladybird and ant
depend on both aphid and tree;
the bacterium eats the tree,
and isn’t much bothered about anyone else.
The tree depends on me to water, feed and mulch,
and I need the tree to fruit –
no leaf-curl, no aphid, no ladybird, no ant.
But this is not a closed loop:
I watch the ants delve
into their hidden home,
networks beneath my feet
and beyond my vision.
I can no more enter their nest
than see a boundary
where the tree might end.