When Great Trees Fall

After a welcomely clement weekend it has turned cold again. Yesterday we had very strong winds and intermittent rain and hailstones. Not so nice for us nor for any tender plants beginning to poke their heads above the soil.

We also had a large poplar tree go down on our boundary. This is the third tree on our holding to fall due to the weather since last Autumn. We have occasionally lost a tree during a storm but three in a short space of time is a bit of a niusance to say the least. It involves a lot of chainsawing and clearing up afterwards, and also the task of processing the debris. There is a lot of brush to dispose of whilst the logs suitable for the log burner have to be stored somewhere to dry out and season. With three trees down in a relatively short space of time this is proving a challenge. 

When we lose a boundary tree they usually fall on to the neighbouring farmer's field. He has been most helpful in helping to deal with it, inluding pulling the tree clear of the boundary dyke with a tractor. The trees tend to fall his way because of the direction of the prevailing winds and the way the trees lean. Yesterday's tree, which was about eighty feet high, fell in our direction, however. The photograph below shows the top half of the tree. Apart from clearing the tree there is some fencing that needs replacing as well a metal field gate which took a battering. It is rather a distraction in what is a busy time of the year on the smallholding.

   

At the same time there is a tinge off sadness for what was a substantial tree and the space it once filled. Although I would not regard this poplar as a 'Great Tree' it does bring to mind a poem by Maya Angelou.

When Great Trees Fall

By Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.