The Walnut Tree

The summer comes to a close, light begins to leave earlier, the warm days gradually cool and the night becomes our friend. In the garden of the Goddess ancient trees prepare for sleep and change their gowns from green to gold, before they slumber in their naked beauty as the winter brings the cold. This Walnut tree is older than many nations are, three centuries and more before revolution and war, its long arms now embrace the ground in graceful curves, its roots drink from the deep, dark soil to feed the fruit that it bequeathes to all who wait for summer’s end.

We sing our songs by candle light, the chiming guitar notes hang in the air, pale stars of some unknown melody, gradually fading into darkness. Autumn is the time to return to memories, those fragments of somewhere we once were, of people we once knew, of some dreams and thoughts and visions, moments loved and moments lost. We remember the dream but never the sleep, we see the light but never the dark. All held in time’s embrace in which we drink our short draught from eternity’s fountain. Drink deep and remember all the flavours of life’s sweet wine. Take another picture, make a memory and in autumn sit and sing your songs beneath the walnut tree.

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  1. Another subtle and lush insight M. I suspect you’ve a boatload of such words, flowing like endless eddies or strings in some physics string theory algorithm. Your prior post was as well a welterweight of jabs and bobs, movements in and around the enmeshment we all find ourselves limited by, barring ubermensch capabilities ala Nietzsche and the superman freed from the consideration or obligation as in the moral and ethical ties which bind us to some strange fealty of grounding like a Purcell Chaconne.

    Shostakovich had commented on his 15th symphony describing the 1st mvt as a toy store .. perhaps.. but in his irony the last movement fades out on percussion like wind up toys over a five of five chords like Bach on the strings. ( quartal or quintal harmonies indeed!) ( compared to his 14th which is clever and sublime in it’s own way.. but I suspect you’ve already heard that song.)

    I see your scribbles and probably mine as well encapsulated in the thrust of the ending of the 15th symphony of Shostakovich. Are we merely children prattling in the universe on such tantrums and lauds or have we encumbered the infinite? grasped the sickly thrust of it’s dick into our place (or face depending on your sensitivity to such images. ) Are there any other considerations and musings and if so why would we even bother as you have eloquently observed, in either typing the words, asking the questions or hoping for a an answer if even such a thing as hope exists? ( the cruelest of impulses) could soothe our restless hearts and minds and souls. Souls Malcolm. Soothe our souls. There is genius in your words. Where will you take them? I eagerly await your next words, a selfish act to be sure but for my part, shameless nonetheless.



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