Cycle

Three trees stand guard, a heavenly gate of luscious green and mahogany brown, a doorway to the rolling hills beyond. Rays of light shimmer through the crevasses, through the intricate web of leaves, through the mass of branches; the majestic giants cedar, oak and willow. Spring and summer come and go taking with them the orchaestra of chirps and clicks that follow. Emerald baldes of grass and the rushing river remain. Soon the first leaves drift off sleepily, their green coats shed an array of red, orange and yellow laying a multi-coloured carpet upon the grassy ground. Autumn departs in a hurry, a thief, leaving branches barren and empty. Winter. Crisp clear mornings, layered frost and snow gather across the frozen land. An icy landscape, cast by an otherwordly hand. It brings a fiery gale, chilling to the bone yet the three stand there, never quite alone. Under the snow new seedlings sprout and spread; a flash of green in an ocean of white, there grows hope. From ice to water, from white to green, the chill of winter gives way to spring; the annual rebirth begins as flowers bloom and fields turn green. Though for them it is just another cycle. Three trees stand guard, still a heavenly gate, to a new but not dissimilar world of life, free from any past love or hate.