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Coffee in hand, I watched the sunrise through the kitchen window this morning. The garden is snuggled under a thick blanket of leaves, with incongruous primroses poking confused faces through the debris of Autumn. A time of endings and beginnings.
The sunrise gilds the damp skeletal branches of a tree gone to sleep for the Winter. I love this tree, yet it awaits the executioner’s axe, as old age and insects have made it unsafe. Only a few bronze leaves cling to the branches, and a deflated balloon, caught in mid flight, yearns for the wind. A forlorn reminder of Summer past.
The tree looks dead, withdrawn into its inner self. Early dog walkers do not give it a second glance in passing. And yet..
The hidden heart of the tree still beats, sheltering life amid the nooks and crannies of gnarled old bark. The lacy fingers are gently outstretched in welcome as a flock of blue tits and house sparrows fly in for breakfast. A wren adds its tiny silhouette to the moving picture and a robin cocks his head, observing from the fence below where to find the richest pickings.
There is life in the dying tree before me. A hidden life, not obvious to the casual observer. Its roots weave their way across my garden, stronger than the foundations of our flimsy constructions. Its descendants stretch their tiny branches towards their ancestor from the row of pots. There is continuity and tenacity in life here.
It is a fitting way to greet a Samhain sun, watching this metaphor as it weeps tears of dew for the dying year as it greets a new generation of children and friends. A reminder of both the fragility and continuity of the cycle of life.
Samhain : seasons : nature :
Samhain : seasons : nature :
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