Wandering aimlessly through Crombie Country Park, I was struck by the beauty of the winter trees silhouetted against the grey skies. There's undoubtedly a sense of desolation about them.
And yet their veinous form reminds you that soon enough the lifeblood will flow through them again.
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing --
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history --
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietàs?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.
Sylvia Plath 1932-1963
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