arwen

saturday 28 april 2012

Arwen was a friend of mine, lost this month to memory and, I presume, the tender mercies of a chain saw. Lost on the 9th, or 10th, or 11th or 12th of this month. I had let my trips to the river lapse for a few days, going out on easter morning but not again until the evening of the 12th. On that night, Arwen was gone. Had I known this destruction was on the way, I would have said a deep good-bye to this old friend on the morning of easter.

Arwen was a white birch tree, standing alone in a corner of what the trolls in turners call Unity Park. Standing there for I don’t know how many years. I used to visit “her” when I walked my dogs to and from the river, the only white birch in the entire park and riverbank. A lone white gleamer in a landscape of firs, maples and oaks.

The eradication of this beautiful tree has come about because of a stinking skate park, and if you can’t discern my feelings about skate parks from the use of the word stinking, then you’re being obtuse. We had a skate park in that section of town before, right beside where the new one is going. I lived only a stone’s throw from it, had to walk my dogs past it all the time, and it was a scum-scene all the way. The longer it was there, the scummier it became. Skateboards, shoes, even bicycles were often thrown over the fence, with no regard whatsoever for any of us pedestrians passing by on the sidewalks. The language emanating from the place was foul. At night, it was a drug pit: buying them, selling them, using them.

But the powers that be here in this sinkhole have decided that a new, very large, very expensive skate park  must be provided for our little criminals-in-training, and so for this noble purpose my old friend Arwen had to die. I grieve this beauty that lit the corner of the park with white bark, especially in winter when white snow joined white bark to make us a vision of a pearl on moonlight nights of white on white on white.

I know I’ve mentioned before that I, being a misanthrope, dislike human beings, and that I particularly dislike the ones who inhabit turners falls. This can come as no surprise to any of you. Close your eyes and imagine Arwen, standing as a lone sentinel at the front corner of the park. Try to see “her” in her winter splendor of triple-white on a moony night, and ask yourselves what I ask myself: why couldn’t the haven for the druggy little vandals have been designed around her? Why couldn’t this white light have been saved?

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read… All my stars…    Stolen stars

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved

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