The Winter Mother Tree

S-The Mother Tree CarolAnneStrange

‘December days are so thin. I stand on the bridge, at the faltering edge of a river, and listen for lucid memories of times long gone. The riverbed, in winter sun, keeps hold of its secrets in the gold sandy bottoms, in the whisky stained waters, and all is as it should be. Church bells ring out the clashing of hearts, and nostalgia punctuates the moment like a loose tear on porcelain, almost invisible. The Mother Tree is touched by snow song, swooning into oblivion. Sweet oblivion. What is past perhaps never was.’

Art | Words: Carol Anne Strange

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