My walk through the old part of the cemetery is a chance to escape the commotion of the world, and take advantage of the quiet and the trees. I enjoy how the weather changes the carefully constructed landscape. One day a sky low and layered. Dark and pregnant with an oncoming storm. My body plays host to the exquisite tingle of the electrically charged air, as I stand in front of a statute of St Theresa, with Bauhaus on my headphones How goth was your day? Another day is sunlit. The sky, a defiant blanket of blue, and my attention is drawn to a stark tree-like skeleton of jet black a little way in the distance. It looks like a sculpture. I wonder if it’s a new kind of tree I haven’t encountered before and, excitedly, I trickle down towards it to investigate. The skeleton sculpture was indeed a tree, black with charcoal, having somehow endured a fire. It looked strong. It’s structure still intact, but covered in this dramatic new fabric. It was honestly, very beautiful. I was joy-struck. As I gently pushed my head into its insides to fully appreciate all it had to offer. The smell of burning was still strong, as the charcoal came off onto my hungry fingers. This was, it seemed, a very recent change to its life. I appreciated the aesthetics of its shape and the fact that it had not been destroyed by the violence committed against it. It was Beautiful, after all. No doubt the flames that engulfed it were Beautiful too. My enjoyment of this apparition as an aesthetic object fell heavily to the ground when I noticed the tiny nest high up in its branches As perfect and black as the limbs that held it tight. I consoled myself with a fantasy. No eggs had been laid there. The nest-maker had flown away, harmed merely by an irritation that it’s intricate labour had been disturbed. It had found a better home, with a picturesque view and excellent amenities. But the reality shook me, as if another storm was approaching. The tree itself, had still suffered, empty nest notwithstanding. Probably at the casual, or deliberate hands of a human. Perhaps it would go on to recover from its trauma. Become stronger. More impressive, more magnificent, and more beautiful as it grows its new greenery. Embrace new nests, in its abundant new foliage with wisdom and grace. The singular glory of anything that survives brutality and flourishes. But really, as the tingle of my imagined storm started to fill me. My body played host to a sadness, and a rage that it had to suffer and recover at all.