Trees in the Forest

A tree in this forest grew for me
Rings around its heart, season by season,
Enclosing a hollow beginning, stretched to light
From a dawn in the leaf litter’s shadow.

A tree in this forest bent for me,
With the winds of passing storms
Leant to shelter, held back the howling night.
Brother and sister trees joined hands:
Grace beneath the pines;
Grace in the darkness of a far-away hill.

A tree in this forest fell for me
Wind’s murdering done, gravity’s
Work dragged it to ground, dried it
Till the cracked branches’ needles
Fell, covering the acid earth;
Me gathering, firewood for burning, cut
To pieces, carried to hearth.

A tree in this forest is waiting for me
A tall trunk, patient and timeless,
Even in the twilight sun descending
Where shade rustles and light moves
Silently; here is my shuttering, a last gift,
The pine box whose resinous scent
Will remind me of home.

© BH, 2016

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T’was just a paradox, honest. Looking into the plantation forest near where I’ve cut out the dead wood for burning, it occurred how the woods provide for us, beginning to end. So here, the seedlings grow, provide wood for the fire, and in the end the wooden overcoat. The cycle of life and all that.

It spoke to me of simpler times. Days when people grew and lived on the land, in it and off it, start to finish.  I thought of a woodcutter. I thought of an old man on an autocycle laden with logs I'd see as I drove downhill into Fochabers.

Still, while I was drawing this together, I was listening to Glen Hansard. Line 9 is his song title, Grace Beneath the Pines from the album ‘Didn’t He Ramble’ and, for what its worth, tips its hat to something more ressurrective: about getting back up and pushing on. Keep on keepin on. You can YouTube it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elpwI15CClI