Smoke waltzing on the dance floor of a blue February dusk, the trees forced naked by winter's grasp as a wander of songbirds Chortle their way through the brush:

- avert my wanting gaze -

Touch destined to trouble no more tremble on those icy sheets

- emerald green - 

Feet unsteady mind unstable life unseated by loss

- alone - 

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.



I tread wearily across the bare of grass; each blade soaked with droplets of early morning dew that shimmer celestial to the world above, folding to a damp collective with each footstep. The trees hang their sombre heads, shifting in a slight of soft wind that graze against bark furrowed like the cracked skin of an every day drunk eyeing indifferent to the earth through empty eyes. Slowly the sun begins to throw her locks through the din of a steely-blue dawn, skimming the ground before me to a golden-edged orchestra of existence.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.


Above the needlework strings thick as if a thatched roof, the forest floor dark and almost forgotten, thick with fallen needles it treads silent, broken only by straggling weeds or fierce thorn that burn angry in their shadowed existence.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.



Dawn redwood - bark twisted and peeling to reveal red flesh beneath, as if whipped for some forgotten crime and left to bleed in the November sun, fed upon by flies and all other hungry for its tenderness. Along the boughs crowd the delicate needles, a pale shade like feathers of a sad Parade. Open wide the redwood welcomes its arms to the world but few come, narrowing to its head that straggles lonely above as if peering into its future fate, whatever it may be.

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image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.


For like empty seed we are a husk, hollow on the dusty floor we are kicked into the cosmic nowhere, to disappear beyond galaxy and blooming death of star, to no new life just black, emptiness, like lightning without sound or sight, just a crack and whip of pain, pure and simple pain that lingers, gashing to a torturous cry, a lust that has lilted since Adam and EVE first picked that evil apple and let flow the worst across the ground, Pandora’s box times a thousand more, Pandora’s warehouse of all brutal manifestations of the human spirit. So free us trees, let us sink live amongst the density of wood and drink at the sap like mother’s milk.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.


Ancient war horn blows proud to the sapling assembly, their shoots sprouting forth, even in the dim light of this white-washed greenhouse, the only rays from shattered shards of our spectrum turned solid, above all stands mirror mirror on the wall, telling truths a thousand times told.

The saplings shuffle uncomfortable in their rows, eager to grow full and burst seed through the
universe, the truth they hold igniting stars in galaxy far flung the beyond, to one day come together in a cluster shining an infinite bright, to eek in cracks dripping crude, to light the forest whole, a holler turned to mere whisper of wind, rushing swift around their bleeding stumps.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera. 


I head across the meadow, interrupted only by forking skyward thistles, to the towering matriarch pine of this haphazard assortment. She leans tall and heavy to one side, her few limbs – which are trunks in themselves – crisscrossing in a perpetual state of motherly concern. In the shadow of her sprawling mane plays each sweet song of the meadow and there she stands, listening quietly with approval, intermittently adding her own creak or whisper to the collection.

As I come close hawkweed glimmers the grass in near ubiquity, as if imitating their celestial cousins, those stars that we see false in our eyes, but if we were to reach them all there would be is dust, strangled in the vacuous void, just dust flickering in our sad, longing stare. I look up and see the fat fisted cones hanging pregnant from her bough, ebbing in the slight breeze, waiting for the day they drop thick to the floor, spilling their meagre mouthfuls to the wind and world beyond.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.



At night, lying awake and afraid, I would rise from the sweat of my single bed and cross carpet to curtain, eyeing out warily through the low of night, and see the beech striding firm from the density of earth, her skin silver in the bare moonlight, brave against the boundless dark, shimmering its bravery to me as if to say her roots were ours - twined together in the plunge of soil.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.


Trees sit central on the throne of a diverse ecology, channeling biotic and abiotic life with a silken flow; they strengthen the fetid earth, pulse water through their wooden veins, and shelter an amalgam of animals during shine or storm. 

But in the monoculture, silence reigns king. If a single tree is the synapse of a forest brain, then the monoculture is a brain lobotomised. Still alive but unaware, it lacks true life and vitality, content to mull slack-jawed on the slopes of a defeated existence, drowning in its own inimitable quiet.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.


Much like man, a tree’s true character is revealed when stripped bare by the icy whims of winter and shone upon by a brazen midday sun. Each inch of scarred bark, every gnarled nub, all the marks and scars that swirl across its reaching boughs and stolid trunk. Empty of leaf, the twisted crown of branch and twig swarms - a chaotic hive festering against the naked sky.

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Image created using a  6-hole pinhole camera.