The Ash Tree

from an ancient wood trapped the garden of the tiny terraced house in south London was the reason I bought the house. I imagined it whispering words of comfort and even singing to me if things got tough. As the seasons passed I watched from my bedroom window, sprightly sparrows, blackbirds and occasionally a bright red woodpecker tapping for insects. The new green growth appeared in spring, giving way to leafy summer shade, the shredding of autumn leaves, the snow covered it’s bare branches in winter.
The dry earth around it’s roots became a secret den for the children, it’s weathered trunk created footholds inviting feet to climb, sturdy ropes supported a swing and a wooden tree house perched amongst its foliage. Only once did I cautiously climb up it’s twisted trunk to rescue a terrified cockatiel in a torrential storm.

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