The memory of trees

This week I was walking and the trees spoke to me.

They told me of their memories. These trees we plant, interspersed between our tarmaced roads, and brick boxes. That we cut and maim and kill as we desire.

These trees remember and they weep.

They remember the primordial forests, where they ruled the land and stretched unbroken for thousands of miles, from coast to coast.

These trees remember touching their branches, their stems, their leaves, their roots with one another. Towering into the sky, supporting it and sheltering the life below that ran abundant beneath their boughs.

These trees weep and stretch in vain for their neighbours out of reach, stunted and contained in the next patch of grass.

These trees remember and they weep.

I remember with the trees. I know the memory of trees. I know the forests, the primordial forests and I weep for the trees.