They speak in rustling leaves and in the slow language of seasons turning.
They are ancient watchers, breathing the world into being.
The trees are never silent, alive with knowing, they whisper to us of rootedness, of belonging to the land not as owners, but as kin.
As the Palestinians cherish their olive trees, each one a testament to endurance and love, so too did the Irish revere the Hawthorn - its thorns guarding the unseen, its blossoms carrying the lore of generations.
Here, the trees stand not alone but together, tall, resolute, and full of grace.
A gathering woven from bark, wind, and whisper. A forest of solidarity.
