It was my tree. Here, in my mind it was my tree, for planted on the day that I was born. I first and best remember it when it and I were five. My first excursion into it (with someone holding me), the earliest of sensual memories: allowed to pick the plums, those velvet bombs of taste, incendiaries of colour, soft waxy reds and yellows, purples, blues and indigoes. Those plums, those sweet Victorias! I found that you could spit and rub them with your thumb, make lines and other subtle colours rear their lovely heads. You made a sort of map. Inside, you'd find the prize: a golden flesh, juice-filled, that squirted when you bit. Later on, and maybe six, the hands still round my waist, my head now full of stories from the war, Atlantic convoys and the like, I found that if you bit the seam from end to end, the squirting juice could easily become a depth charge in your mouth. Then if you gently squeezed the base, the sharp stone surfaced like a crippled submarine.
This is a rewrite of part of a poem - rather too long and too opaque. One of the first I posted.