I woke up with thoughts of trees this morning and feeling a little melancholy.
We see trees and take them for granted, that they will always be there for us to look at and enjoy.
As a child, I was never one to climb them, but would contentedly listen to the birds as I watched them flit from branch to branch. The song thrush would find the highest perch and sing the most sweetest melody to the sky.
The leaves protected them from preying eyes, shielded them to some extent from the elements, and buds and bugs thereon provided nourishment for their growing young.
The blossom from a tree provided colour and attraction for the bees to help promote new growth and life.
Photo: Lilac tree left behind when we moved out of the cottage in 2014
I have had no blossom to bring forth my own children, though my arms reached high and wide to envelop those in my care. Each was an individual and was treated as such, finding common ground and encouraging their interests. I tried to provide them with roots, even if only on a temporary basis.
Photos: blossom on the cherry tree in the Avenue, April 2015
Like a trunk, their names have been carved into my heart although I have no contact with any of them now, and have most likely long been forgotten to make way for more important things in their life. Maybe though something will trigger a happy memory and raise a smile.
My branch on the family tree is stumped and terminated as there are no little offshoots to nurture. I am a long way from the original glade, and when I fall, who shall notice?
It’s just the way it is.