Within the beech hedgerow, for the tiny robin, each tree was a neighbourhood, each branch a familiar friend.
That beech hedgerow was a magical thing, from denuded brown wands to a Mardi Gras of green, all without awareness of audience nor awaiting applause.
The foliage of the beech hedgerow in May were pure optimism, bright and young. Come August they were a reverent green, as deep as the North American pines. How those leaves told the story of the seasons, the return of colour followed by the strong browns of its winter wands.
Storms came to quench the earth that communed with the beech tree roots, the soil that held blessed water until it could be given to its sweet leaves, each of them shaped as a raindrop heaven-bound.
The garden was lined with a beech hedgerow, deeper than my own wing span, arms stretched wide. In it nested a community of birds, taking shelter in it and doubtless finding much food there too. Yet that hedge waited until early May to become full green, to take on that verdant clothing, uncurling those leaves as if they each were a hymn sheet of heaven.
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