Old trees make old bones.

This past few days I have been writing with trees in mind, the pictures I have taken on Crook Peak, and other places creep into dreams. Like the Old Man Willow from Lord of the Rings, they can grow to dislike the modern world and its pace that leaves them in an ever decreasing sphere of influence.

Old Tree
Old Tree

Old Tree.

Each tree finds a space to challenge a landscape
with time and slow gripping roots.
Talking with the stone, 

reaching into the weakness of the earth,
drinking the sun passing through summer,
sleeping when the wind fights back. 

You won't hear the words, 
the disdain for quick passing moments.
They see your shadow, your death.

They won't know you till the saw bites
and then they understand the difference
between waiting and war.

They say the cold is returning to England. The North wind will perhaps bring snow. One thing is for sure, winter is here and people are waiting to see how deep we drift this year. The old wives tales of berries red and late leaves on the trees tell of hard times ahead. I wait to see how it goes, for now, work to be done and family to attend to, what to get for that special christmas gift? All I have is ideas for the moment.


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