My Husband Simon

by Mollie Panter-Downes

I lay on my back and stared up at the copper beech tree. It rose in such a miraculous pyre of weaving branches and smooth bronze leaves, high, high, until it lost itself in darkness. Right at the core was a lozenge of blue sky. What was the use of trying to write? I could expend years of energy, gallons of ink, without conveying to anyone else exactly how this tree glowed with secret dark fire in the sunlight, how the trunk stretched out snaky limbs, strong and delicate and exact, to support the piled magnificence of the leaves. Piled magnificence—words, words! What was the good of them? I wanted a new medium, something between writing and painting, with scents and sounds thrown in. How can I make someone see this copper beech tree, smell the cool, luscious grass, hear the hum of bees in the red and purple vetches? It’s no good. … I