The Survivor

The Survivor

I stand between cloud and sky, rock and earth. My roots travel deep, my limbs clothed in summer splendour. With my heart I chronicle the years – one hundred seasons and set for one hundred more.

Once I marked the boundary of meadow and woodland. Sheep and lambs rested in my shade; lovers whispered beneath my leafy temple. Now, the town bleeds into pastures, roads choke the forest. But still I stand, taking only what I need, giving back in kind.

Pause in your clamour and you might hear the echo of the forest in the creak of my limbs.

Miranda Lewis 2022

Welcome to Friday Fiction, hosted by the esteemed Rochelle, with a forest of stories from around the world. Thanks for reading and special thanks to those who stay to comment.

In the country town where I grew up and my mother still lives, new houses have spread outwards into what was once fields – one estate of houses is even called Radstone fields. We used to see sheep and lambs out of my mother’s bedroom windows. Not anymore.

Fortunately some old trees have been kept and now stand sentinel at roundabouts and crossroads. I always wonder what they could tell us so Dale Rogerson’s picture was a real gift. Thanks Dale!

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