In the garden, the log pile is a whole world. I hear frogs croaking from within it, I watch wrens foraging for insects. It’s a mixture of different species: apple from neighbours who were cutting a tree down, walnut from a pollarded giant at the allotment, hawthorn lost to a storm.
There’s also oak, elder, hazel, willow and birch. I stop tree surgeons and ask if I can take a log or two, replacing the sadness of another felled tree with the hope of the life its dead wood will support. I like taking new logs home for my log pile.
