Earlier this week, a tree surgeon took whirring blades to some cheekily overhanging branches over our road. Shame really: I like it when the leaves are box-clipped as buses and lorries trim them from below. At the moment though, the branches are naked and forlorn, unable to hunker down under their coat against the perishing icy blasts of the easterlies. Their cheek was exposed; the blades inevitable.
Unless, like me, you are boreally disposed, trees typically disappear into the shadows; a key-line or highlight of dark matter around our expected views of the world; a penumbra. We notice them when they are gone, starkness revealed, but rarely celebrate them in life. Strange then that as the day-glo clad forester did his work, there was a constant drip drip drip of an audience. Standing opposite, calling out, asking a question, or quietly noticing and enjoying the cropping and bobbing of the tree’s new styling. This tree softens the view down the road, the perspective teetering away round a bend in the distance. It’s gone now, but the main trunk remains, proud, strong, tall, ready to burst into new life with focused vitality in the Spring. A new vista will emerge.