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| This juniper grew in a tiny cemetery in a low spot on the island where three small children were buried many years ago. The old shrubs had surrounded their headstones making it a close and peaceful little grotto. The juniper had aged along with the headstones - growing twisted branches as the stones grew moss and lichen, clinging to this wild coast with the grip of life. When I returned to the island one year, I found that the juniper had been cut down. Sadly, the now bare stump of its trunk is another silent marker that stands for what once flourished. |