The bark wore an ashy-blue skin of lichen. It might have been an oak. It had welcoming limbs that carried us away from the patch of dug earth where Grandad worked, if work it was and not some kind of devotional act of strange religiosity. We have to slow things down here. So Grandad is leaning into his garden fork and wearing his string vest. There’s a metal chest rusting on grass. It’s been there forever and serves no purpose except to hold this memory like so much pirate treasure. Pieces of thoughts. To look out, to look around is to see yellow-white stubble or land ploughed black. Green hills undulating. Thick hedgerows. Slates on outhouse roofs. Spikes in the earth, stones like bones. The same stones they used to build the houses with around here. Braced with iron Xs.