TREE III

The still slow life is mine, my days are years. Tied to the soil, I reach towards the sky, as men rush by, so driven by their fears, and with their fears intact pass on and die. When I was young my fruits fed Plato's peers and Roman legions blindly passed me by, the Turks sat by my trunk and cleaned their spears then Shelley came and held me in his eye. I have grown old, though not as old as some, who sit beneath my laden boughs for shade. The hot dry Summer's still my first delight, and in the Spring's new days the men will come, to gather up the miracles I've made from water, air and soil, and good sunlight. (Distant Mind)

---

Motiv	2.7 × 2.6 cm, Aquarell
Papier	300g Aquarellpapier
Format	20 × 20 cm

---