The Trees are Gone

02.10.2020

Yesterday I heard a man cutting down a tree. The consistent thud wasn’t placeable until I moved the curtain, barrier to the outside, and located the death tap. A lady walked up the path beside the now fallen tree, skirting it without a backward glance. A man rode down the first part of the path, then wobbled his bicycle around the leafy ends, and back onto the path beyond. It was as if the tree were just an inconvenience; something that had annoyed the man so early on a Thursday morning. It’s not there now. And if I hadn’t seen it fall, hadn’t watched its slow descent to the ground from which it sprang – how many years ago? – I doubt if I would have felt its absence. There have been many fellings in recent weeks. The air was full of the buzz and whine of chain saws only six weeks ago. The biggest tree, close to us, has already sprouted significant new growth from its deformed stump. But I saw this one die. It feels so much more personal because he used an axe. He had to be deliberate, take his time, strain his sinews, feel his sweat and breath more readily than before. He heard the whisper in the leaves before that small tree fell. Small, yet more than twice his height. His axe, tiny but mighty.

I feel its loss, that tree. I notice the absence of the large one that shielded us from more dust, from wind strong enough to blow over metal clothes airers on our first floor island. All around are trees, bits of land, then more and more buildings as the vista forever changes. We are Noah in the ark, looking for land. Looking, but not wanting to destroy.

I welcome the defiant growth on the lopsided lump of roots or trunk of the biggest tree, too big to hack down. You can’t beat me. My sap still runs. My secret is buried in the earth. Don’t cut me down. Enjoy my shade. My coolness gives you rest from this hot sun you battle as you fight my will to survive.

So I miss the trees. The lightning tree is gone, and with it the nests and their birds, cackling and calling to each other at odd hours. Instead, they perch atop the neighbouring roof, festooning it with white trails.