It’s raining Sycamore flowers

They hung, fragrant and sticky earlier in the year, buzzing with insects eager for the sweet feed.  The leaves and twigs of the tree, and the ground beneath,  glistened with honey-dew.

Now they fall down in showers, blown and sunburned brown and dry and carpet everywhere with their soft, cone-shaped florets.  I scooped up armfuls of these flowers at the height of their shedding.

When they were in bloom, I remember thinking that it was a very good year for Sycamore flowers – along with the Buttercups.

Those that remained on the tree fast turned to keys and the tree looks to be in flower once more, with the intense pink colours.

I’m aware of this Sycamore tree as it stands feet from my workshop door.  It is an old tree and in high winds loses dead branches, but it provides a haven for birds, who nest there and feed on the insects it attracts.  Ladybirds feed on the aphids, Tree Creepers proddle at the loose bark for food, Blue Tits feed their young on the tiny green caterpillars that erupt on its leaves and the Swallows use the top branches for their courting.  At the base, where the soil is dry, Partridges take dust-baths and lie with their feet in the air, part buried from the scratched up earth.

This cycle works well, I have lots of small Sycamore saplings, witness to the success of the winged seeds,  which when wind-borne,  rotate and travel, helping them spread away from the parent tree.

At the moment the tree is full of the song of my busy nest making Wren.