Ancient and young

The rain comes and goes. The world is chill and silver.

Around my feet a forest grows: tiny trees, gnarled and stunted by the endless wind. They cluster in hollows, growing almost shoulder-high in the barest hint of shelter, but on the open slopes they are sparse and hunched, their branches streaming to leeward like windblown hair. Those branches twist and curl like clenched fingers, like loops of calligraphy, stark against the brightness of the sea.

They feel old to me, but not like the ancient rock above me; their oldness is of a kinder sort. They are old with years of struggling and surviving, of suffering and fighting and holding on. And there might not be many of those years, before they finally give way to the wind, but they tell a better tale of oldness than the rock ever can.


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