11/10/2022 0 Comments Thinking of FuturesThis is the world my baby will be born into. A world of chaos and disorder, where peace seems an insurmountable challenge. But the world that also holds pockets of memory.
Places where times of old linger. Where the birch still grows it’s crooked path, where the autumn winds come in a flurry, where the honeysuckle stays green and bright through into the grey months. These pockets are what we protect. Places where the rocks are broken asunder by tenacious roots and bats find refuge in these new hollows. Where the heron passes with a cranky ‘fraak’ and still the day turns. I know this path is where the roe deer steps on delicately fine long legs. Where her large ears prick in response to any warning sound. These woods are the domain of the robin, the wren and the wood mouse and I’m happy for that to be the case. I’ll no more push my agenda on them instead let the peace envelope me. And now, within my centre, the baby sleeps. The wind catches the tops of the birch that sway jerkily in the wind. But this hollow is old: the trees big enough to protect me from that same wind and while the ground becomes ever more clothed in leaves of yellow, ochre, gold and brown, the trees become ever barer. Still there’s green. It lingers and will even into the winter. The moss on the rocks, juicily luscious, the ferns though fading are not yet faded. And the chlorophyll in many leaves has not yet been withdrawn and they cling yet to the twigs from which they sprung five months before. The blaeberry remains in leaf, though the berries are long gone. The grasses too are slender and not-so-upright, but still going nevertheless. Time will change this silent place, but let us hope that it’s natural time and not humans that have the impact. Let us hope for those rowan seedlings to grow taller, the mosses to grow thicker and the rocks to age in their own inimitable way. That’s my hope. And I’ll whisper it into this still, silent hollow, for Mother Earth to hear. From one mother to another.
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