I
knew
her name
was Cherry,
my favourite fruit.
It grows on our family tree.
Isabella, a country girl from County Tyrone,
I first met her in photographs,
veiled in sepia,
velvet-draped,
her face
a
frown.

You
made
great pies,
my father told me,
and waved when his ship sailed away.
You don't know you've a genealogical grandson
who wishes we could've been friends.
I'll plant you a tree
in Tyrone.
Cherry,
of
course.