Christmas Trees

The evening sun is all whiskey distilled gold and as it slides like honey over my western horizons, it pulls mine and Jip’s shadows long and lean.  I look taller in this light.

I tramp about the farm almost every evening. Often this year, when my children were locked down in English cities, I felt even luckier to have this space. I do again now.  I write to my eldest daughter who is locked up in Tier-4 London and recovering from Covid.  I am sending sunshine, I write. In solidarity, my house is bare of decorations. I confide in a friend – ‘I couldn’t bear to put any up, without the kids here’. 

But when I walk the farm, I see that the acacia are decked with a snowfall of ivory blossom and as the evening light slants through the dense green of the tree,  the pale pompom flowers are burnished silver and bronze and it is as if the boughs are strung with Mother Nature’s own baubles. She has done what I cannot: decorated.  I stand beneath the tree and watch the sun profile Meru’s slope, see the mountain shrug off the day nonchalantly and my heart is stilled. 

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