For Linsky
I always believed the woods were made up of alder and birch, grown for coppicing, felt familiar with their skinny, light-seeking trunks, the bounces left behind by squirrels in their high branches, the insistent knocks of woodpeckers.
Perhaps I have somehow missed running through them in early July, or if I did was more concerned with avoiding tree roots and the ankle-twisting hardened ruts of mud because I have never before witnessed this …
… what looks like, for the briefest of moments, thousands of hairy caterpillars draped over brambles, holly bushes, ferns, before they quickly reveal themselves to be the long yellow catkins from a mature sweet chestnut tree.
Running serves me well, my body and mind rebalancing with every stride, each deep breath, but this morning’s slow stroll is a gift from a friend searching for flowers and leaves she can press into eternity.
Castanea sativa, literally ‘brown chestnut’. The deception
of the ordinary. The wondrousness of it all.
Comments