It’s July and the browning grasses are high
Along country lanes and tangled hedgerows
Thick with purple-headed rods of crooked foxgloves.
Spring’s dancing yellows are gone. Rose grows
Beside begonia, and buddleja, the butterflies’ friend
And I am at peace from my head to my toes,
As I rest in my chair, scenting the odours of Pembrokeshire’s air.
It’s July and the fund-starved farmers must try
With shiny new tractors and names like John Deere
To cut silage. Noisy but quick, squirting green streams
In a cavernous container, the ship of the field. The new buccaneer
Robs fields of grass deep and thick, afore it rains,
From clouds black and low, full-bodied drops, heavy and shear.
The weather’s so fickle. How did they, ere long, those grasses sickle?
Cycling home on my red Cannondale racing bike, at least the bike frame said “Racing”, as I struggled into the headwind, a thought hit me and it wouldn’t go away.
It was the kind of thought which seemed so clear as I pushed on the pedals but now I sit and push on the computer keys it seems somehow incomplete…
We are the bole of the tree of life, my wife and I. Our roots were nourished by the fertile soil of our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, who gave us values and standards and love and our branches are surrounded by the burgeoning spring leaves of our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
We are the trunk that links the past to the future.
We are the guardians of the past, who pass on family messages, stories, traits, values and mores in an uncertain world to the coming generations.
We are the trunk of a bountiful tree, a healthy and still growing tree, but we know when the time comes another tree will replace ours just as we replaced those trees which grew before us.
Just a thought.