‘The apple tree throws down its dead and we kneel, fools for its blackened, overripe flesh.’ This is a line from a poem I wrote about the house we restored from a derelict state; the house that is now our home.  The poem referenced the all-seeing apple tree that had always been there, overlooking the back of the house, taking us from season to season.

The tree was a victim of last Monday’s Storm Ophelia, which hit Ireland very hard. It now lies in two halves, pale bark exposed, its multi-branched head, face down. We miss it.  Back in spring its blossom was breathtaking.  My husband urged me to take a picture before the tree stopped blooming.  I’m so glad I did.

There is some possibility the tree might survive.  A couple of small branches are still attached.  We will have to wait and see.  Whatever happens, next spring and summer will be very different.  There will be a lot less colour and life in our garden.  The loss of our tree was the only loss we suffered during the storm.  We know we are lucky, but I think we are allowed to be sad.