No greater love story

Betulaceau a family tree
A lover for life
Admiration for one so bold
A prodigy on it I am sold

Enigmatic a surprising tree
Who loves the fen lands
And there they be
Feet in the water
Peat saturated
Plenty of lime

On the Norfolk Broads
And at Wicken Fen
In Cambridge
Where it all began
That love affair
Free flowing too
Fearnog the Alder’s dreams
Come true

The Celtic spirit
March is it’s time
The great provider
And it doth climb
Creating shade
For fish below
And seeds for birds
As well we know

It’s love affair
With life untold
With the river bank
It helps to hold
Up its roots for good support
Engendering strength
Through deepest thought

Esoteric number eight
The number of man
A human trait
Abundant for thousands
Of years before
Thus legions of insects
Inspect its core

It’s leaves it’s twigs
It’s rightful wood
Beetles and flies
And moths all could
Damage it’s being
But in a way
It so stands fast
And enjoys their sway

All kinds of bird life
Flutter to
Siskin and warblers
Mallards who
Share the seeds
And love the shade
And around it’s feet
Shrub layers laid

Sallow perhaps the Guelder Rose
Privet and Spindle
I do suppose
Blackcurrant and Berries
And agrimony
and sedge and nettles
And perhaps Comfrey

Mycorrhizal association
With several toadstools
And the notion
Of partnerships
With bacteria they
Transfer nitrogen
Every day

From the air
That is everywhere
Rather than from the soil
Carbohydrate the gift
It gets
It gives it receives
And ofcourse it sets

A precedent really
It all it does
It’s giving its love
And it’s care
A buzz
Of life of wonderment
At its root
Attracting the Otters
Who remain astute

The goddess tree
The fairy realms
Immersed in water
It overwhelms
It hardens as stone
It’s toughness reigns
Psychic battles
Blood red stains

Oestra’s aura
Green Shoots give flight
Saps a rising
Leaves fluttering
In the morning light
A love affair
With bird and beast
With bank and insects
Too not least

and despite the insect
Army throng
Who congregate
And some belong
The Alder Moth
The Alder fly
Have little connection
I wonder why

They come to enjoy
The Alder’s place
They give and receive
And are gone without trace

Likewise the nightingale
Singeth her song
The warblers warble
The woodcocks belong
They do no damage
None at all
In that regard
It all stays cool

As for man
The wood
May go to ply
Soles of clogs
By and by
Green Alder branches
Make good whistles
The witches conjured
Destructive sound
Thus deterring
The invaders
Any of those around

March the 18th
A time when Alders
First blossom cometh
And a drying time
For the Spring sun
From the heavens
Dries the flood
As it has always done

A tree of fire
Of resurrection
It’s buds in spiral form
Life itself
The great love story
And from what I have written
Little debate

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