Logic tells me its hard wood picked up none of my thoughts, but nonetheless I willed the little tree to feel something, not wanting it to stand there in silence anymore. In humanising this undeniably non-human being though, sending thoughts in lieu of an impossible conversation, I wanted the tree to feel noticed and appreciated, not just ignored as part the scenery.

I’ve stood before this somewhat ordinary tree many times, this time however, my attention was seized by a blood coloured berry, one of just a few left dotted around the tree’s tangled twiggy mass of branches. Where just a few weeks ago little red

treats adorned its crown now tiny buds lit the way, many being forced open by milky green leaves like fresh eyes opening to see the new year.

This standard, run-of-the-mill and unremarkable hawthorn tree lives on a grassy bank in a park not far from my home. It stands there all the time minding its own business, being one of a few field edge trees chosen many moons ago for their ability to withstand knocks from people playing nearby. In fact, whilst the tree’s needle-sharp defences might have been developed to protect it from grazing animals, in this particular spot they’re likely to have felt more footballs than front teeth.

With an awareness and respect for the folklore attached to hawthorn trees, I found myself pausing just a little longer this time and appreciating the tree’s journey through the colder months. I pondered its relationship with the ivy that clung scale-like to its trunk, its dense network of branches that in summer will become a camouflaged haven for songbirds, and I pictured the white mayflower spectacle that will arrive just a few weeks from now.

In my moments of contemplation, I questioned whether the tree could actually pick up on my thoughts at all, realising that if it could, there was a chance it might not care for them anyway: the tree’s outer appearance clearly emitting stay away vibes. So, might its response be as tough as its exterior, telling me in no uncertain terms that it didn’t need or want my appreciation, or might its character be open to thoughts, praise and adoration.

What I did see in the moment was a thorn tree that stood motionless, without reaction or any sign of acceptance of my thanks or recognition. I also realised it was the perfect time to see that its outer appearance was again changing. Very soon the last berry would be gone, the leaf buds will have burst open and the tree’s form will be full and green. Had I after all been summoned in some way, to stand in appreciation? Had that one berry been left as a visual gift, or a lure to focus my attention?

I know not what mystical powers are at play, or if my love for nature and overactive imagination are getting the upper hand. Whatever it is, maybe next time I’ll make time to find and leave a token, something biodegradable as an offering to show my appreciation. If the little hawthorn tree knowingly accepts the gift I’ll still not know, but I’ll be happy to take my approval in the form of its soon to come flowery crown and the subsequent crop of berries, both of which may be all the brighter, I’m sure, for my gift. For now, though, I’ll leave few these words as my sign of respect, for the field edge hawthorn tree.

Gary Webb – Gardening and Writing Ways