The wind blows across a flat, bruised landscape made from a mixture of blue peat and purple heather. The expansive barren vista reaches out in all directions till it is cropped from view by some small watered dell or long stilled quarry that is crowned with slabs of blackened sandstone. Ancient woods once stood on this place and crowned the top of all the hills surrounding the town. Tall sentinels that watched the dawn of man and his rise to dominance till their fall came swift with his ill thinking hands. Yet even as I sadden for the world that was, my eyes are drawn to a stunted oak that lies in a small hollow. It’s twisted stem and branches trace out a torturous path of growth. Barely three feet tall it clings to its spot on this earth with a tenacity and will that puts me to shame. Here it has lain for the last decade and waited for the world to change and spring sylvan siblings from under its spartan shade. Waited for me to stroke the earth and place a token at its roots. It is done.