Strips of Bark

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I'm recalling the trees of my childhood. There was 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 to small. Or the bush in York street we'd hide in whilst our parents talked, or the one we'd climb, or the one at her place in which we built a tree house and we were fairies and elves at the bottom of the garden. Another one had a swing tied to it and even better at her cousin's place was a tyre swing across a field of autumn leaves. There were the trees from which 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, gradually revealing the hidden depths of the tree. There was the willow tree that I always thought of as weeping beautiful, though it was only an ordinary willow tree under which I could sit by myself and feel lonely by. Or the other retreat by the little nestle of bushland trees they planted by the side road, where you could sit in solitude and strip the layers off the paper bark trees, soft fleshy layers to gently peel and rip away at, revealing scars across its surface, peeling each tiny filament from the larger chunk you ripped off, letting the pieces drift to the ground. All of these various trees to play and weep beneath and seek solace amongst their branches...