For years I stood vigil outside a human dwelling at the edge of the city. I missed the hushed companionship of the forest but I gave my shade freely, bound the earth with my roots.
An owl perched amongst my leaves. I soaked up water and made oxygen.
Until they mutilated my limbs, tore out my roots and paved over the rich earth beneath. Until they burnt my body.
I do not mind. My soul lives on amongst my sisters the clouds. I look down on fire and flood, on drought and hunger and I wonder at it all.
Miranda Lewis 2021
A special thanks to those who stay to comment.
I realise my story will do nothing to raise your mood if, like me, the COP and various climatic world events have left you reeling.
The house I was born in 1960, on the edge of London, definitely had a huge tree (I was very small!) growing in the front garden. When I visited the street a couple of years ago, sadly all the trees and every front garden had been replaced with a paved area.
My dad drove a Ford Anglia in the sixties and used to sometimes stop in the road outside his own front door, so that I could run down the garden path and hop into the front passenger seat. He then drove us around the back of the house to our own garage.
Nobody uses these old garages anymore, but the grassy lane running along behind the back gardens is still there, now beautifully rewilded and a real corridor for city flora and fauna. A little piece of living hope clinging on in a concrete world even though every front garden has disappeared…