The Secrets of the Trees
We hold our Mystic Magic in the Forest weekend retreats at Rosliston, in Rosliston National Forest, near Burton upon Trent, just south of Derby in the Midlands. Our retreats are themed, but often include an appreciation of nature, walks, the significance of trees in Spiritual and Pagan history, and their myths and legends. This blog charts the story, in instalments, of those trees, and all of those to be found at Rosliston, around forty species. Each tree is to be found at Rosliston, but may also be found more widely around Great Britain, Europe, North America and beyond.
In these blogs I describe each tree, explain where they are found, what their history is and how they have related to our history. I also explore the myths and legends surrounding the trees in different countries and from different traditions as well as how herbalists have used them to treat human conditions and how products from the trees have been used throughout history. I hope that you enjoy reading these tree blogs as much as I have enjoyed writing them for you. If you would like to come and see them in their natural habitat why not join us for one of our retreats?
Local poet Penny Harper from Sutton Coldfield has written a fabulous nature poem featuring the seasons and trees. She has kindly given me permission to use it. I think that this is a fitting introduction to the series.
1 Sky
Is piebald
Clouds gather light
And don’t share.
Birds trace desires
In ever widening circles
Scribble the prologue to Spring
With raucous impatience
2 Buds
Barely through now
Massing up to face down winter
Camouflage their intent against
Another cold coming
Oak offers mock bronze bullets
Ash is bold with scarab beetles
Rowan in crocodile skin
Hawthorn presents its royal gold and red
Quietly amongst green lichen
Flirty Blackthorn strings out clusters
As if it is still Christmas
And Willows fly by wearing aviator helmets
On the backs of their heads
Dogwoods don’t bother with buds
Clutch flimsy fans close
I admire their optimism
3 Earth
Plumps its comfort up in Spring
Low moss mounds, sphaqnum cushions
Neat pillows of fresh wild thyme
Mattresses of dessicated grasses
Collapsed in this year’s late winter snow
But now, in March, cosy as she may
And though she makes
Persuasive invitation
She cannot press the bud to show its face
Nor catch the wary flower’s eye
Bitten by frost, now fighting shy
4 Puddles
Are not as still as you’d expect
They twitch their skin in irritation
Against some bite of wind you can’t detect-
In effect, a touch sinister
They breathe out Earth’s own vapours from below
Shaking with some private laughter
Reflections sunk like lost alien souls
Dancing to some nameless puppet-master.
