Twelve years ago I first felt your touch, and now I feel it once more. The ability to be.

You have changed since then, gnarled and knotted skin, a broad centre, a towering presence of confidence where you once leant in the direction of the wind.

Your interest buzzes around my neck, travels down my shirt and kisses my skin with the slightest of brushes. I feel a calmness under your canopy, a port of tranquility where the hoots, tweets and shifting leaves build an illusion of silence that allows my true self to take over and my mind to withdraw.

We fill our roles the way we were destined. You, a picture of the past, the present, and the future, unmoving and stubborn, yet always providing what’s needed, always reliable, always beautiful. And I, a being created as the universe’s way of exploring its own consciousness, appreciating your rough elegance and perfect imperfection.

Us humans, we are like neurons, exchanging energy across the body of earth, going through pain and joy and anger and elation. Always feeling. Always on the move. You slow the world down, allow me to feel the energy I hold within and be in the now, to feel the moment. In myself you make me believe.

When I leave your grasp, I realise the problems are different yet the solutions are the same, only now you give me the strength and clarity to soothe my emotions and do what I must do. My mortality is recognised in your embrace, but my anxiety does not rear its ugly face. I feel solace knowing you will live on, a wordless sentinel against blaring horns and lives with no reprieve.

I know not when my next visit will be: days, years, or decades, but I will always return. My link to the divine, my hideaway of peace, my cathedral of trees.