The old oak strains up from the white limestone, her pale trunk caught from the rock below where Hazel and Holly entwine forming a woodland backdrop for this cameo of a long life well lived.
The grey limbs support a veil of Ivy which in turn pays it forward to the miasma of insects who depend on late pollen or early berries.
A system of survival which has taken icy ages to develop, still weaving cosmic threads above and below in this never ending spiral of finely woven cloth. A skin so thin, yet hard as the meteors that hurtle by.