My name is Arbre and I am a fine tree on the edge of a large meadow in Normandy.

‘Twas one hundred years ago when I was brought to this spot by an elegant white bird.

Then, as a seed, I was embedded in the grey mud that clung to his feet.

He swooped for a worm and I was left in the cosy warm dampness of a ditch.

I flourished as a seedling in this quiet dark depression for a long long time.

But gradually I reached to the top of the shadows to be kissed by warm light.

When I was taller I espied the sun for the entire length of the day.

And I counted the stars in the tall dark blue heavens each night.

I am now old and gnarled and tired and my branches and limbs are bent.

But for nearly all of my long life I was strong and tall and free.

Man has often used me for shelter and many children use me for play.

Initials of lovers are carved with care and meaning on my back and on my sides.

I am in the furniture of the nearby farm, and in the cow sheds and barns.

And I support, with dignity, the figure of Christ in the old white church on the hill.

On Sundays in June when the sun is high, families from nearby spread white clothes on the grass.

They sit and talk and laugh and eat, and use my boughs and leaves for shade.

Their children shout and run and hide and play, and climb up high within my branches.

And in the quiet of the evening lovers creep into the shelter of hedgerow to whisper.

Their whisperings merge with the restless rustling from rabbits and birds.

As these tiny little bundles of furry life settle down to dream away the darkness of yet another night.

But many years ago my meadow was not quiet and beautiful. It was torn by a terrible strife.

My branches were shattered by explosions and my leaves were scorched by fire.

Deep furrows were cut into my bark by long strands of plaited wire.

Laced with cruel barbs of steel they were wrapped around my weeping trunk.

My roots were disturbed by soldiers hacking holes in the ground in which to hide.

Young men from one country that was not mine fought against other young men from yet another country.

Some had come to take, others had come to give and save. And the battles lasted a long time.

The farmer hid in the cellar under the house and the farmer’s wife hid in the cellar beside him.

The fighting was long.

And the fighting was terrible.

My leaves and my branches shivered and shivered during the long long days and nights.

Then suddenly the battle in my meadow was over and the soldiers were gone.

The farmer and his wife left their cellar and came to look at their meadow.

They saw all the damage that was caused to the flowers and the grasses, And to the hedges and to the other trees like me, and they were very sad.

Then they saw that not all of the soldiers were gone. Some had died in the battle and would fight no more.

The farmer and his wife wept bitter tears when they saw what had befallen these poor young men.

“They fell here for us,” they whispered to each other, “They fell for the freedom of our country.”

She said “We will make for them a beautiful resting place in the corner of this meadow.”

All the people in the village helped and the field was cleared. The hedges were repaired.

The cruel wires were cut out carefully. Blackness was removed and the engines of war were taken away.

And the fallen warriors were gently laid to rest in a corner of the field given by the farmer.

This corner was made beautiful as the farmer had promised.

As day followed day and week followed week, my meadow regained its former loveliness.

The bushes and trees and grasses and flowers lived in peace again.

And soon all traces of battle and the scars of war were gone; clothed with new life and colour.

The only trace of that conflict to remain was in the tranquil loved corner where the British soldiers laid.

There, amidst the village’s concern, was a remembered peace.

One fine morning important looking men from Britain arrived with papers and measuring sticks.

Some were dressed in grey suits and others were dressed in smart military uniforms.

They looked very serious and waved the papers and their hands in the air for hours.

“We have come to take away the soldiers,” they said.

“They fell here,” whispered the farmer. “They belong here,” whispered the farmer’s wife.

“They belong in the big Field of the Fallen over there near the sea,” indicated the visitors.

“That is an Official Place,” said the men in grey suits, “And this is not an Official Place.”

“They died here,” whispered the farmer’s wife. “They can stay here in my field,” said the farmer gently.

“But we look after them in the Official Place,” they said. “We look after them with great care.”

“We look after them here with great love,” pointed out the farmer. “This field is their place.”

The important looking visitors pleaded and pleaded with the farmer and they said, “The Official War Cemetery is kept neat and beautiful and it is where all the fallen soldiers belong.”

“We keep this corner of the field neat and beautiful and this is where they belong,” countered the farmer.

“I think that we must insist,” they said, but not unkindly. “We are sorry but it must be done.”

“No” said the farmer,” very very quietly. “They remain here.”

The men in military uniforms looked forlorn and stood still. The men in grey suits stood still.

And the farmer stood still.

Then the men from over the water waved their arms around and left my field. And the farmer went home.

All was quiet again. Insects hummed amidst the beautiful flowers and chased their shadows within my branches.

And the place where the soldiers were buried, slept peacefully in its clean neat corner.

Sometime later the men in the grey suits from Britain returned.

They brought their papers and their measuring sticks and they brought men with spades and digging equipments.

“We have come to take away the soldiers who died here, to take them to their proper place,” they said gently.

“They stay here,” replied the farmer as gently. And he stood in the way of the men with their spades.

He stood there alone defending the sleep of the young men who had given their lives for his country and people.

The farmer stood there alone and waited.

The men with the spades stood there and waited.

The men in grey suits waited because they did not know what to say and they did not know what to do.

Then the gate to the field was opened and all the men and all the women from the village came in.

Firmly they stood by the side of the farmer so that he was alone no more.

Then the wife of the farmer came into the field with all the children from the school.

They ran, without laughter, across the field to join their parents and the other villagers.

The village children in their frayed smocks knelt to gather, and then scatter, the summer blossom.

And then, placing carefully their tiny feet, they left behind blurred footmarks on the gravestones.

Footmarks of concern on the pollen strewn white gravestones of their British friends.

Tiny hands clutched tiny bouquets of delicate Normandy flowers.

Then, with shy glances, they were left, at the feet of the visitors. The silence was complete.

The farmer and his wife and the peasants and the children faced the visitors who stood motionless.

Even the wind stopped its breathing and my boughs were still.

The feet of the people of the village gave a silent answer to the unspoken question from the visitors.

“We guard them. They stay here.”

After a long silence the men in the grey suits spoke quietly to the farmer and the villagers and the children.

“They belong here,” they said. “May we make this corner of your field an Official Place?”

The farmer whispered, “Yes,” and the people whispered, “Yes.” And the children chorused, “Yes! yes! yes!”

A little time later the men in the grey suits returned with other men and more equipment.

They made this corner of my field an Official Resting Place and it is now called an Official War Cemetery.

But the people of the village also look after this corner. They look after it very carefully.

The farmer told this to the visitors when they came before to my field.

Other visitors, who knew the soldiers before they died, now come to look at this corner of my field.

They say to each other, “This field is beautiful, this corner is beautiful, the village people are good people.”

They say, “When it was not Official the people of the village brought flowers and looked after this place.

Now it is Official the people of the village still bring flowers and look after this place with love and care.”

Every year on a day in early June, all the village people hold a special Service in the corner in my field.

They sing and pray. Children bring bunches of flowers and place them tenderly by the white graves.

The people come to remember what those young men had done for them so very long ago.

They come every year. They never forget.

My name is Arbre and I am a tree on the edge of a large meadow in Normandy.

I am now old and gnarled and bent and tired.

I have seen History being made. I have seen much change.

I have witnessed great acts of courage and have seen much suffering and sadness.

I have seen families grow.

I am an old old tree and my memory is fading fast.

But the deeds of courage and gifts of life made by these men resting in my field will always be remembered.

The good people of the village and the men in grey suits from Britain have worked together to make it so.

They will never be forgotten.

They rest in peace.