The Eucalyptus
The yard was too small for a Eucalyptus really. The roots were a constant menace, pushing at the paving stones, inching them upwards season by season, laying traps for unsuspecting feet. It looked almost lonely in the company of rose bushes and ivy. A displaced Antipodean, abandoned far from home. The house had been bought by an Australian in the 70s. She'd planted it one spring, a shivering little sapling from a garden centre, leaves a muted teal in the weak English sunlight. A little piece of home. Awkward, trying its best to acclimatise, to settle in. It sent its roots deep, looking for home, sent them wide, looking for compatriots, finding only English stone. But it had flourished nevertheless. She died some time in the 90s, the Australian. Tucked up in bed in her home away from home. There were worse ways to go. She was laid to rest under heavy English soil somewhere nearby and her tree left alone in the too-small yard. A ghost of her, in a way. Like the flowery wallpap...