In
Memoriam © Ray Husthwaite
It’s only a tree.
Yes but; it was the biggest tree for miles around,
It stood over the forest,
It spread out for yards covering a clearing,
Soft floored with its debris.
Hiding a secret glade of mossy, half rotted logs,
Where the Green Man sits to think.
Three hundred years old (give or take a few decades),
And just reaching its maturity.
And now it’s gone.
It’s only a tree!
Yes but; we played and learned under its branches,
Camping out for Earthwatch, teachers and pupils,
All together as one, eyes closed on our backs,
Listening to the distant sounds of creation and evolution.
A magic time, finding the heartbeat of the forest,
Role-playing the spirits of the woods.
Shocked by the appearance, in the flesh,
Of Pan incarnate, asking us to find in ourselves the call of the wild.
And now it’s gone.
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It’s only a tree!
Yes but; I took my love and lover there,
And under those branches, in the eyes of the birds,
To the rhythm of their song, we showed our love for each other,
Joining in the exuberance of nature all around.
I took my friend there, in white pain with arthritis, she
walked for the mile or so,
With sticks, just to see this tree, just to sit its shadow
Just to feel the heartwood call to her,
And to join with me in the love of this tree.
And now it’s gone.
It’s only a tree!
Yes but; I would go, from time to time, in need,
When the world was too much, when life was too bad,
In times when my heart was twisted with pain and rejection,
And the hurt was too much even for the drugs to stem.
And I would lie on its roots for hours, and stare up through
the branches.
Looking at the sky and the greater universe beyond,
And there I found peace, there I found perspective,
There I found time, and the words “it comes to pass”.
And now it’s gone.
It’s only a tree!
Yes but; they didn’t care, didn’t think, no
malice, just stupidity and carelessness,
With only thought of profit; not noticing, not even noticing,
They cut down the protecting forest to the east, profit from all that
good timber
Profit from the hunters with a clear view, now, of their pathetic, farm-bred
prey.
And of course, with the first great easterly gales of the
winter,
Those shallow forest roots, predictably, could not hold the height,
And weight of that denizen; it fell,
Taking with it all its neighbours.
And now it’s gone.
It’s only a tree?
Yes but; in a strange
way, it was my friend too,
And I grieve its death,
I shed some tears next to its empty carcass,
It shall not pass unmarked.
There is hope, around the floor,
In the new found sunshine shimmering down from the now empty sky,
The seedlings are growing,
There is hope – and continuing life.
More than just a tree
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