Andrea's epic poem provides a wonderful insight into Christmas - from the perspective of the Christmas Tree .....
A Journey of a Yule Tree
I'm standing in this woodland; been here for several years, at the same time every year, they come round with their shears and saws and pruning gear, we perfect triangles one and all, it's what the people want to buy, to adorn their lounge or hall.
I remember being a seedling in sheltered accomodation, forced to grow with my whispy friends in our plastic incubation. Maybe 'twas a luxury being protected from heat and frost. But still, those weaker friends of mine only made it to compost.
Well, at least we were fed and watered. Sometimes music we had played, they say its good for ambience; saves us going retrograde. I was getting used to my snug warm pot; my roots were growing fine, my needles strong upon my twigs; warm air in here devine.
Then, one day, all of a sudden, doors open with a rush, the air from outside hits me with a supprising, forceful gush, I wondered what on earth it was - concerned about my fate, as my friends and I were quite roughly, bustled into a create!
Its just as well my limbs were strong; vibrations through my bole, shut it hollow darkness; that noxious diesel hole, endured a lengthy journey that seemed to last a hundred years, if I was of human form I'd have been reduced to tears.
The lorry doors were opened, we were shifted once again, shoved upon a trolly and wheeled up a leafy lane, shafts of sunlight caught my spines, my pot placed on the ground, upon the well tilled soil; could this be heaven I have found?
Once again my roots are drenced, I'm put into a pit, my sapling friends around me didn't seem to mind a bit, come the nights to start with, used to get quite cold, but we've all been here a while now and we stand tall and proud and bold.
I remember thinking "was that it; is here where I must stay, to look across the valley until my dying day?" "I think not" I heard a nieghbour say, a forbodingly remark, "this may not be our resting place, I'v a feeling in my bark!"
Well, sure enough, after several years, growing through seasons with a passion, in thier droves they come along, true to human fashion, the short ones point with mittened fingers and in thier rubber boots, the tall ones chop around our stems and yank us from our roots!
The haven I stood in was left behind, I'd been there for several years, if I was of human form, I'd have been reduced to tears; bound and strapped to the roof of a car, not sure where I'm going, speeding along at a rate of knots like a 747 boeing.
Another traumatic journey had, my branches felt tattered and torn, feeling sad and dejected, sorrowful, forlorn, then being lifted from the roof, few roots I had left hanging, again I wondered whats in store; my wooden tree-heart banging.
But I was gently lowered into soft dark earth, neatly in a bucket, I thought; this aint so bad you know, I'll wait and see and 'suck it', once again I'm in the warm in sheltered accomodation, I can put up with a bit of this; luxury in moderation.
It seemed a funny sort of place with kids and noise and dogs, I'm placed opposite an open fire; they burn my friends as logs! yet I am worshipped; decorated from root to crown, adorned with glistening regalia and stand proud in my tinsel gown.
The days surrounding solstice, sprigs of oak and holly might invoke our imagination to winter's end, hence impending light, and with festivities over, I'm planted in a garden, vast, and many years have passed now, I'm here to rest at last.
Each year at winter solstice I wear tiny lights that glow, now and then although its rare, I may even wear some snow, but this is where my home is now with kids and noise and dogs, and every year I'm worshipped and avoid becoming Yule-logs!
Andrea Povey Nov/Dec 2007 for Winter Solstice
