Bare branches against the winter sky

Lines drawn

each tree has its own language

Whip of willow 

filagree of birch

stitch of hawthorn

candelabra of ash

They draw their identity in the sky

I am oak, beech, blackthorn

A definite line withstanding the harsh weather

 

A structure, a skeleton

seeking, expanding

so leaves can reach light

Each branch dividing and dividing again 

large into smallest bud tip

A leader shoot primed to aim for the sky

A rigid structure but also a living flesh, with sap moving both ways

A vascular system transporting water, minerals, sugar

 

In winter resting, enduring

In protective lock down 

they hold still

stand naked, bare their bones

paused until the light returns

 

February 2026 Tyrone Guthrie centre