The bus was just on time, as was the train - don’t you just love it when that happens? Run-walk to the middle of the park, race against the sun that sinks behind me, spot a speck amidst the bare branches. One man and his canvas, made small and young by this hardy veteran. How to recreate the beauty you see - the sprawling branches, the antiquity that teems with life - with pen and ink? Relax, don’t try to capture it all. Long, wavy fluid lines. A different time frame opens up here, it’s slower, deeper, more humbling. The sun reluctantly sets behind the hill, the blank-white moon rising to take its place, a few stars beginning to wink. Just lingering here, on that cusp between day and night, you start to sense that ineffable connection behind it all - behind the shrieking parakeets and the quietly grazing deer. It’s there too in the new buds gently opening on the bare old tree. Just imagine it growing right in the middle of London - think how much we’d care for it, how much we’d revere it… I guess we can always dream.