There is a Shape to Trees
There is a shape to trees, to this tree, long legs, thin waist, head, hair, eyes, it’s all there – tree person, person tree. Bark bristles below my feet, dust spatters the air with every shake of the branch. Pop! as a gum nut flings itself onto the floor. Voice tree, tree voice, vocal chords of phylum and xylem quiver. Movement tree, tree movement, in time, through time, before and beyond time. Can this all too solid flesh melt into trunk, into flesh and muscle and bones – and disinterest? A breeze of purpose and accident floats through limbs and heartwood curls of leaves, ‘V’s of twigs, tree chatter, dry, pink, brown. And watching it all in the pool’s reflection, four centuries of light bounce into air. There is a world of life and living below the soil, soaked in the rub of stones and pockets of water and air, a story buried in composting leaves and bodies, worms and beetles, memories of footsteps and birthing blood staining the feet of this tree Cleansing stench of fire, quickfire steps, fire’s black and harsh remnants and choke on new breath and old memories, as gum bleeds from heat scars. And buds bleed from heart scars grieve old endings, new beginnings.
Feature image via Biodiversity Heritage Library