|Usually one of the first signs of spring|
I often inveigled my immediate neighbour with a request to 'prune' those branches that trespassed onto his garden, with the proviso that he hand the offending twigs to me, which he duly did. They then took pride of place on the hall table, helping to dispel the winter blues. How could anyone feel miserable having witnessed this living miracle?
For me, this Van Gogh-like tree was a sign of hope, accompanied by the delicate snowdrops that shyly made their quiet debut, only to take centre stage as the spring progressed.
How tragic, therefore, after returning home one afternoon and gazing out of the french windows to discover that the tree had been pruned back beyond all recognition. What the poor tree had done to warrant this act of vandalism is beyond my understanding. I feel so sorry for myself, the neighbourhood and, of course, the tree itself.
|The view from the french windows now|
On a positive note, however, at least part of the tree still exists and so I'm trying to comfort myself with the thought that, Nature being as powerful as she is, perhaps there'll come a time when I'll be able to gaze out of the window and Vincent's vision will once again delight the eye and lift the spirits.
I live in hope.