Do you not see the beauty of the trees,
how they arch over you, their branches raised, as if in hymns of praise
their secret voices carried on the breeze
in the rustle of chlorophyllic leaves?
Could you not stretch out beneath them,
look up through their limbs into the light
or shelter from a rainstorm underneath
their canopy of infinite delight?
Do you not realise the gifts they bring to us
in their silent way, not boastful and not proud
but standing, tall still, even bowed, bent over by the wind
however: once torn down by fire and storm
we lose all that they give us:
Written for earthweal
For this week’s challenge, ‘Beginnings,’ Brendan invites us to ‘write of Beginnings — wherever they may be found.‘ I had a recurring dream in childhood of a home inside a hollow tree, which was alive and so much like a womb to me.
The photo shows a sycamore tree which stands at the edge of the stone circle we call Long Meg and Her Daughters. I take delight in the rich old woodlands which thrive in this part of the world. I fear we will lose them to a rapidly changing climate.