Under the Eucalyptus Tree

@PoetryofSci

Under the Eucalyptus Tree
A young mother walking to the clinic

sits on a bench to rest in the shade

on this hot and dusty day. She has taken

off the sling in which she carries her young child

laid it on the bench beside her

while quietly humming some song

her mother once sang to her.

Her child dozes fitfully, hot with the fever

her mother’s special tea could not break,

and she wipes the sweat from his face

with a damp cloth.

When she began this journey

Mother had frowned and said,

“I do not trust the people in that place,

with their pills and their machines.

The old ways are best.”

Mother and her husband had not wanted to hear

about the nurse who had come to their village

to speak of the clinic, had not wanted to hear

about the calm gaze and quiet, reassuring voice,

had simply stood a long moment in the doorway,

faces carved in stone, then turned to disappear into the little house.

Now, finally, the young mother sees the clinic,

just a little way up the road.

She gathers her resolve, takes a deep breath

and rises from the bench, whispering a short prayer of thanks

to the eucalyptus tree that granted her this moment of rest and shade,

and perfumed the breeze with hints of mint and honey.

- Charles Coe