‘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.
