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.