Tree Time

I am standing.

The tree is standing.

My inspiration is your expiration 

Once, long ago, I stood on my father’s feet to learn to dance
Clutching his tree-trunk thighs and branching arms
I swayed as he swayed, lurched when he stumbled
Held and was held. Safe and loved in the exploration of a world that passed above my head, unknown.

Now he lies beneath us
In the deep rich loam that feeds your body
And softens as my tears fall like rain.

With my back against you I feel
your connection to the wind,
the earth beneath me moving as you sway.

Your inspiration is my expiration.
The pulse of the water in your veins linked to the beat of a long-stilled heart.

Broken Oak

A huge stump of a tree. The split, yellow strip of bark where it tore apart feels rough and sore. My brother remembered that when it fell, the loud indescribable noise brought people out onto the quiet road, which it blocked for days.

Now it stands, a ten feet tall, thick heavy tree body in a shawl of ivy. An odd, large ball of bark holds fast onto its side.

I take a chair and sit drawing. Not one mark shares a likeness with the raw, hollow jaggedness and the empty sky.

I wrote a short poem after a visit to a stately ash tree near Dartmouth on the afternoon of the 18th August 2021.

The tree is massive with branches near the ground, and the roots travel beyond the crown, both uphill and downhill, providing a good anchor in it’s windy home.

My presence felt fleeting like a flash of light as I briefly moved through the long long timeline of the ancient tree.

I felt protected and held as I sat on the lower branch and looked out.

TREE
You before me.

Mother, hold me.
Together we fasten the earth
and the sky.

You after me.
Tree.

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