A Wild White World

The Tree Of Winter


   The fens stand still, no winds on this day of January, freezing mist sits above the rich garden of the east like cloaks of silver haze waiting to fall upon the soil, everywhere so quiet as if I was stood watching a winter funeral but my eyes only fell upon one subject. There stood the most regal of ice tree, it stands looking out over the fen as if every noble branch was inspecting winter's work, pointing to even the smallest gap in the ice.

   Can he feel me watching, does he know my thoughts, the strength I see in him and how I wish I was standing there in his place, a hundred years behind him and a hundred to come, seasons pass and wind blown fen earth protect his roots, how we dream of that safe long life.