Trees are history, they hold our memories, they have seen things. They are life, love, loss. They are figures upon our landscape essential and necessary, but often taken for granted, or never really seen. Trees are beautiful but can have a menace about them too, stick thin and towering sometimes, bent and knarled at others. Solitary sentients of our world or pulsating swathes of forest. They have stood as guardians over us for centuries, as silent witnesses. They bear the marks of living upon their bodies, much as we do.
The Slow Whisper Of Trees is in part a visual poem of all these ideas, but it is also an exploration of my own fears, and wonderment as I make my way in this world. A small musing on the cyclical nature of things; of memory, loss, impermanance, balance. A reminder of the interconnectness of all things.
All images © Claire Gilliam
It started with a whisper.
That sound upon the air
Frozen, held, suspended
Then propelled forward
Into time, towards End.
Imprinted upon the land
Stories are told then
Of this cyclical life
And our place in it.
Our birth, our death.
These are our whispers
Echoed upwards, and on
Circles of thought and
Connected history
Cradled by long limbs.
Amongst the deep crevices of
Bark and branch
Inky memories etch their way
To coil our loss and love
tightly bound, taken root.
For anyone who cares to look,
Delve deep and long
Or to quietly sit and listen,
The slow whisper grows loud
To tell beyond our decay.
