The Liminal Tree
@theliminaltree.bsky.social
Part earth, part water; an outsider who chose outside. Flood survivor; the last librarian in the liferaft. Aficionado of the rarer honeys. Older; if you heard my history an eclipse would swallow your mind and leave you hollow, a husk of a human.
Still going through my archive. This picture of an apple tree from I think - annoying lack of metadata - Belton, a village in Leicestershire which still has a permanent, and used, Maypole. Picture taken in late July 2018.
January 28, 2024 at 6:54 PM
Still going through my archive. This picture of an apple tree from I think - annoying lack of metadata - Belton, a village in Leicestershire which still has a permanent, and used, Maypole. Picture taken in late July 2018.
Though a previous me prefers the fresh, sharp, unadulterated air of a winter morning, a different iteration prefers high summer; leaf and flower and plant, a thousand shades of green and the invisible airborne cocktail of pollens.
To last summer (rural Worcestershire, pictured) and the next.
To last summer (rural Worcestershire, pictured) and the next.
January 23, 2024 at 2:05 PM
Though a previous me prefers the fresh, sharp, unadulterated air of a winter morning, a different iteration prefers high summer; leaf and flower and plant, a thousand shades of green and the invisible airborne cocktail of pollens.
To last summer (rural Worcestershire, pictured) and the next.
To last summer (rural Worcestershire, pictured) and the next.
Storm Isha growls and snorts and prowls around, up and down, the other side of the window, as I snuggle further under the duvet, arrange a barricade of pillows.
The noise, the rise and fall, sonic reminders of the relentlessly hypenemious night, nineteen January's ago.
The guilt of the survivor.
The noise, the rise and fall, sonic reminders of the relentlessly hypenemious night, nineteen January's ago.
The guilt of the survivor.
January 21, 2024 at 9:55 PM
Storm Isha growls and snorts and prowls around, up and down, the other side of the window, as I snuggle further under the duvet, arrange a barricade of pillows.
The noise, the rise and fall, sonic reminders of the relentlessly hypenemious night, nineteen January's ago.
The guilt of the survivor.
The noise, the rise and fall, sonic reminders of the relentlessly hypenemious night, nineteen January's ago.
The guilt of the survivor.
Flicking through a picture archive of stained glass windows. This one, taken in Lincoln cathedral in 2015, made me pause, frown; staring at the sunlight casting colours onto the adjacent wall.
There's a rustling, some ... briefly disturbed memory or other ... somewhere in the back of my mind.
There's a rustling, some ... briefly disturbed memory or other ... somewhere in the back of my mind.
January 20, 2024 at 5:31 PM
Flicking through a picture archive of stained glass windows. This one, taken in Lincoln cathedral in 2015, made me pause, frown; staring at the sunlight casting colours onto the adjacent wall.
There's a rustling, some ... briefly disturbed memory or other ... somewhere in the back of my mind.
There's a rustling, some ... briefly disturbed memory or other ... somewhere in the back of my mind.
Always, always, the reluctant witness.
January 19, 2024 at 10:14 PM
Always, always, the reluctant witness.
This evening was a pomarious occasion of good humour, loud bangs, convivial conversation, shouting, unrestrained yelling, fire, and other Wassailing tomfoolery.
And, of course, mead. The binding, the fluid, the enabler, the oil of life for those of a certain ilk.
There's mead, and then there's...
And, of course, mead. The binding, the fluid, the enabler, the oil of life for those of a certain ilk.
There's mead, and then there's...
January 17, 2024 at 9:20 PM
This evening was a pomarious occasion of good humour, loud bangs, convivial conversation, shouting, unrestrained yelling, fire, and other Wassailing tomfoolery.
And, of course, mead. The binding, the fluid, the enabler, the oil of life for those of a certain ilk.
There's mead, and then there's...
And, of course, mead. The binding, the fluid, the enabler, the oil of life for those of a certain ilk.
There's mead, and then there's...
January 17th, the old twelfth night, the passing of the death of life.
We will tramp our way across frozen ground to the orchard, bare of apple and cherry and plum and pear - except one, protected and unpicked. And we will shout, burn the dead wood, raise the elements, fire into the sky, and sing.
We will tramp our way across frozen ground to the orchard, bare of apple and cherry and plum and pear - except one, protected and unpicked. And we will shout, burn the dead wood, raise the elements, fire into the sky, and sing.
January 17, 2024 at 4:22 PM
January 17th, the old twelfth night, the passing of the death of life.
We will tramp our way across frozen ground to the orchard, bare of apple and cherry and plum and pear - except one, protected and unpicked. And we will shout, burn the dead wood, raise the elements, fire into the sky, and sing.
We will tramp our way across frozen ground to the orchard, bare of apple and cherry and plum and pear - except one, protected and unpicked. And we will shout, burn the dead wood, raise the elements, fire into the sky, and sing.