There’s a willow tree; it’s stranded in the middle of a field, far from the winding river which borders it. When I drive to the supermarket  the tree’s permanence speaks to me. Long ago it fell down and now its sprawling stump yields fresh growth: sturdy stems which in the Spring will throw out green fronds. We’ve passed the darkest day of the year and the time of renewal will come again. The battered old tree keeps going. Sometimes there are sheep in the field, sometimes cattle.  The river flows on.

About lleweton

Long retired.
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2 Responses to Willow

  1. Pooka says:

    Wonderful. And I love willows. Maybe my favorite tree.

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