The tree remembered being planted in the churchyard those many summers ago. For he saw the young daughter of the squire slipping a copy of that new book on Pride and Prejudice in to wile away the long sermon. This blissful rural scene was oblivious to the battles being fought on land and sea to fence in the tyrant Napoleon.
He brought to mind the parishioners chattering excitedly having been told of a war far away over whether humans could own humans; trees never own each other more than they can own God’s sunlight.
He then lived many summers and slept for many winters before Johnny, the blacksmiths boy, proud in his khaki uniform marched off to France. A few months later, his family came weeping to the yard even though Johnny had no grave there.
It seems hardly any summers at all after the Great War, than his branches were swept back by a gaudily painted plane sprouting smoke and crosses flew overhead with another firing in pursuit. Now he saw the night sky filled with new strars, all talking to each other as they silently rotated above.
More recently, he was overjoyed when a young family came to stay in the disused church which had been converted to a house. They played in his shadow and touched his bark in games. And so he felt the pain even more as the chainsaw cut into his flesh to make way for another room for washing, games and fitness machines. But through it all, he knew sorrow for humans neither live for summer or sleep in winter but destroy or are destroyed equally in ever season.
Let us pray
Remind us we are custodians
Of all living things
Not their masters
Just their caretakers.