{Driftwood}[19th December 1969]

[Redbook1:(109A)][19691219:0000]{Driftwood}[19th December 1969]

19.12.69.(1)

Driftwood

            I saw a tree, a young bush, floating down the river, water-carried, water-carrying among its branches: turning a little, slightly twisting, glistening with stray droplets: a touch of nature, uprooted in the midst of man's achievement, not by man's carelessness but by the natural order of things, by force of flood.  So, despite man, in spite of pollution and population, despite extermination and clearance, the work of nature continues regardless -- or regarding only a little.  For a barge passed, and the drifting tree ... sank.

            What's did it know, that tree?  Did it grow through summers, watch the children play beside, see the coloured boats pass slowly by?  Did it rejoice in the sun and the warm wind, and tremble at the thunderstorm and the whistling, thumping gale?  But you forget: trees cannot think, they cannot remember.  What, then?  Was it aware of the heat of the sun, the vibrations of the children's feet, the straining of the wind, the wetness of the river?  Did it know what was right for it, and what was wrong: what good for it, and what bad?  Or is such a mighty living creation merely a collection of unresponsive cells, unsentient, meaningless to itself if not to others?

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