The title for my entry is 'Transformation' because I have been able to recover the torn limb and make productive use of the wood.  The objects express how the ancient tree has undergone changes in its lifetime that have left marks and colour variations that are like wrinkles and wounds on the body of an old soldier.  

Starting from the left and described in turn:

1. vase turned from dark heart wood
2. vase turned from a narrow part of the limb so that the two types of wood, the inner (dark) and outer (pale) layers are present. 
3. large bowl from the broadest part of the limb with old injuries, repair tissue and hollows have allowed me to use green and blue coloured resins within the variable wood colours as an infill.  The swirling grain creates a sense of movement.
4. Small wooden box with a lid that includes dark heartwood and cream outer wood.  
5. Broad vase with swirling grain and varicoloured wood.

Storm Darragh
(Prose poem)

A carousel wind swept around the square then careered down Market Street whistling. Tornadoes of dry leaves spun towards darkest sky. Pub signs squeak-creaked, squeak-creaked, squeak-creaked as if they might break free and sail into churning fury. Two locals braced themselves against the blast, their raincoats rattling like rigging. “This one’s called Darragh,” yelled the man. “They give them names now, you know.” “Ridiculous!” shrieked the woman. “It’s only a bit of wind…” but her voice was whisked away over rooftops. As Ruthin’s Seven Eyes shuddered and flexed, the man and woman – bent over like peacocks, their bags trailing behind them – scuttled towards St Peter’s, where angel gates trembled and the spire’s golden cockerel thought he might discover flight. Meanwhile, in Cae Ddôl’s green expanse, an ancient oak smashed to earth – its crashing loud enough to destroy the gates of Annwn. Tiny tree sprites with terrified eyes – the Tylwyth Teg – leapt, screamed and wept as they tried to merge with greenest shadow, but no humans heard the tree’s thundering demise over the roaring of Darragh’s wind.
A towering oak
withstands five hundred years
to lie broken
on flooded grass.

Pat Sumner

St Peter's Square

All of Ruthin's roads lead here
to the square at the top of the hill,
surrounded on all four sides by ancient buildings
and their many eyes,
that have witnessed centuries.

A little girl was once observed, sitting on the bench
outside the Midland bank, eating green grapes
out of a paper bag, swinging her feet
beneath the hem of her new, flowery sun- dress
bought from Ethel Austin on the corner of Well Street.
She's guarding the shopping,
a loaf of bread and eggs from the Milk Bar,
watching the world go by while she waits for her mother.
She studies the rectangle of silky blue sky,
castellated by the roof tops and chimney pots,
and feels as if she could fall in.

A decade later, the girl stands beneath the Peers memorial,
its clock tracking time at the heart of the town,
the horse trough and drinking fountain long dried up,
as if no one ever gets thirsty any more.
Above, the same courtyard of sky is midnight black
and the stars flicker in the crisp Welsh air.
Tonight she's not alone.
Her companion, a boy, takes her hand, pulls her close.
She looks up into the green reservoirs of his eyes
and feels as if she could fall in
as she waits for him to kiss her.

Some years later, on a bright Saturday in June,
a pied draught horse pulls a cart, trimmed with flowers
and trailing ribbons, it clip- clops up Market Street
and turns once about the roundabout,
passing the banks, the clock on the square
and the Castle Hotel. People stop to wave and cheer
at the girl in the cart, radiant in her bridal ivory and gold.
She looks out at the sunlit streets and familiar faces
and feels her heart swell with love for home.
Tenderly, she is delivered to the great arched doorway
of the town hall. Inside, her boy waits for her.

Leaf Pettit