What’s left of George Fox
is somewhere nearby.
Maybe his flesh fed the tree
whose leaves form a dome
of sheltering green
in the City of London.
I sang songs about Fox
in First Day School,
as did my parents
and their parents before them.
Generations of Barkers flowing
from the fertile ground of England
up the trunk and through the limbs.
I see faces in the gnarled wood,
my predecessors striving for air:
nonconformists, free-thinkers,
dissenters, Friends.
I would climb this tree,
take my place among the thousand
leaves sprouting from high branches
furthest from the earth
yet utterly dependent
upon it for life.
This is just so beautiful, Bartholomew. I can really identify with your words. It’s fascinating to see the Bunhill Fields Burial Grounds. This is the first time I’ve seen them. One of our Friends at my Quaker Meeting pointed out that there is a Quaker burial ground not far from our Meeting House and that, perhaps, we could all take a walk (or drive in my wheelchair) up there together after the Meeting one day soon.
I love that you see faces in the gnarled wood of the trees. I do, too. Trees are just wonderful, aren’t they? I am passionate about trees and ‘adopted’ a black poplar down by the river near my home. I visit him regularly and watch as he changes with the seasons. I wrote a piece about him some time ago on my blog, called ‘Befriend A Tree’, including lots of photos of him taken at different times of the year. I am passionate about all nature and wildlife.
Thank you for directing me to this beautiful poem, my friend—My apologies for the delay in getting back to you. I’ve been struck down with Covid this week, which is why I’ve not written anything for over a week. I miss it. Take good care of yourself ~ Ellie X