Jew’s Ear Fungi camp in the brittle bark of ‘Once a Tree’; his body is broken, separated, chopped and sawn until only his feet remain surrounded by remnant branches.
A crocus pokes her green bonnet above the Earth’s hem and waits for the first rays of early morning sun; she sits between his old, grey ankles, safe from the blustery chill wind.
Beetles proliferate between the woody skeleton and brittle bark; little black-clad civil servants, each one anonymous, each one purposeful, yet each – seemingly – unaware of his fellows.
Ants have a toehold in his feet; nested one within the other; each a little world occupying a little space in their corporate reality.
‘Once a Tree’ remains still among the breeze-blown remnants of himself and his fellows, all gathered together to ‘dine in’ another Master, while the old one walks no more and memory is but brittle bark.