To comrade tree

Detail from work by William Kentridge

What comrade tree might make of my start of the year report, is maybe a gentle suggestion, "listen...." This morning, having attempted to begin accounts I have to file with HMRC by the end of the month, I was distracted by looking for a fridge for mum, by searching the wettest winter on record, and a last minute week in Provence last March when the blossom was already out. 

As I browse the photos, the trees turn the tables and report to me, "it was a gift, that week away, and it turned into a prophesy." 

What the week foretold was a curve into a world of caring that so many friends are in or like me are finding themselves in. A world of appointments, waiting on hold, unpredictable events, ravenous for time. 

Some friends are rediscovering the light-headedness of no commitments. Many are asking the  same questions as me or have become experts and so I can ring them for answers. I used to joke about being a commitment-phobe in my sixties and into retirement. That was short lived. 

Two trees stand out like postcards I might have posted to myself from nearly a year ago if I'd listened to the prophesy. 

The bulbous ends of pollarded trees used to fascinate me when I was a child and the woman's head, so sculpted among the stumps, is wise and collected. She maintains her calm. 

The ghost tree was in a wood below ramparts built high on a hill in one of those small towns in Provence that defy cliffs and sheer drops. The trees around it were conifers, evergreens, but somehow this silver birch grew into a landmark by a bend in the path. Comrade trees, I report to you that bend in the path and all who look after others who are standing there.