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I’m recalling the trees of my childhood such as the tree with open branches that spread outwards from a low centre point like a birds nest which we’d crawl into, but we soon outgrew it and I’d forget which one it was as they all seemed so small or there’s the bush by York street we’d hide in whilst our parents talked or the one we’d climb and then we’d go down to her place where we built a tree house amongst the branches and we were fairies at the bottom of the garden or swing on the timber slat hanging from a big old gum and we went up to her cousin’s place one day and swung on the old tyre swing over a mass of autumn leaves kicking them up loosely with our feet, there were the trees we’d pluck dried cicada shells from or the large tree in the playground around which dozens of us would crowd around with our lunchboxes and sticks trying to dig out the Christmas Beetles each summer and tuck them away as pets, the dirt around the tree each year becoming thinner as it wad pushed away revealing gradually the hidden depths of the tree, or the willow tree that I always thought of as weeping beautiful though it was only an ordinary willow tree which I’d sit down under by myself and feel lonely by, or to sit in solitude I could hide in the little nestle of bushland trees they planted by the side road and strip the layers off the paper bark trees, soft fleshy layers to gently peel and rip away at, revealing scars across its surface, to peel each tiny filament from the chunk ripped off, letting the pieces drift to the ground… All various trees to weep beneath and seek solace beneath their branches...