I dream about trees sometimes, and I write them down. There are two dreams in particular that console me. The first is of a picture. Black lines on thick white paper. It’s a drawing of a copse, young trees clustered together, naked in an empty winter landscape. They are all tied around with a single ribbon. From inside the copse there is a strange glow, huge, as though something like the sun is caught amongst the trees.
In the other dream, my little boy and I are sitting inside a car on a huge expanse of tarmac. The tarmac is derelict, cracked, with plants pushing through it. The car is parked underneath a giant oak tree. Time is passing. Debris drops from the tree onto the car: galls, leaves, acorn shells, discarded chrysalids, aphids’ honeydew, birdshit, bits of twig, dead beetles. Gradually, the car is getting buried and decomposing with us inside it. Spiders are making webs over the car and moss is growing up the door frames.
We observe the layers thickening on the windscreen and the daylight becoming muted. I am happy: we are disappearing: it is profoundly calm.