A live evergreen tree, hauled up the stairs and set up in the living room, smeared and daubed with baubles. Standing there, resinous with pine, an alive (just) presence in the room. Living with the thing daily, watching it shine at night. The fact that we, post-religious, blanded out, consumer-led, do this thing as if it were as natural and obvious as breathing. Which it is, in a world where everything green has gone brown and hard, and the light shrinks away daily. Its tribal, anthropological, vital, an ordinary lifeline to what matters.