In one of the fields in which I walk everyday there is a copse of trees. There are about thirty trees spanning an entire corner of a field. I have no idea why they have been left there the land is ploughable, but there they are. Some are pine, the rest are beech, sycamore and ash. A few years ago the farmer tried some new planting but he lets cattle graze the land and they just sat by the saplings and rolled on them, or sat on them. Doesn’t help a sapling to have a quarter tonne squash them. There are a few dead trees there one leaning against a beech, they will make a noise when they come down. The three other fallen trees make a good catch-me-if-can excuse with the dogs who seem reluctant to jump over them the way I do.
Rooks and crows nest in them but they are all in bad shape and when they die off I suppose that will be the end of this copse. The trees there now are between a hundred and a hundred and fifty years old. Majestic, close, fragrant.
Every autumn I go I can stand in the middle of the field on a breezy day and the leaves scatter falling all around me. Mostly the beech tree leaves. It is one of those moments when great strength shows a delicate nature, and when the dying share beauty.