We have a Christmas tree in the Fibro. Your basic pine tree, of the species Plasticus Fantasticus. It lies dormant in a box under the bed, awaiting it’s annual chance to (literally) shine.
This year, we also have a Christmas tree outside the Fibro. More a bush, really. A dead bush to be precise. It used to be a magnificent Portwine Magnolia shrub. Then the July rains came and it drowned, dropping branches and leaves from the base up in a desperate attempt at life.
Despite our best efforts, it could not be resuscitated. But neither have we worked out what to do with it, or the space it would leave behind if we remove it. So it remains. Twiggy. Lifeless. Starkly beautiful in its own special way, as the spiders weave their magic and decorate the sticks with webs, which glisten in the sunlight and in the rain. Leaves are redundant, really.
These days, however, it stands a little taller, decked out in holiday finery of baubles and glass balls. It is surprising how much pleasure I get out of looking at it. The boys whizz past it on their scooters, barely allowing it a glance. I can see it from my study window, watching the different play of light on the sparkly baubles as the sun progresses overhead.
I wonder if it will still be there next year. Perhaps it will spontaneously burst back into life, new growth speckling its bare limbs. Now that would be a Christmas miracle.
Do you have a real tree or a plastic specimen? Any baubles bedecking your backyard? Or perhaps you prefer a light display?