The sweep of moorland stretches far across the horizon. Pools of marshy sludge sit hidden beneath the veil of grass, trickling streams trace their invisible way towards their inevitable end, rocky outcrops spring from the ground for no apparent reason and scatters of rust-stained bracken brave the hard spring frosts.
All do little to break the monotony of this infinite landscape.

Maybe that’s why that elm stands there, with only the lonesome curlews for company. It wanted to be alone – so it could appreciate its insignificance in the solitude that the universe of heath provided.
Of course, it could have been the man, who sowed the seed that grew. Digging up the frozen soil with his hard, cracked hands and placing it there – to show his sons that they were masters of the moors, and that only they could shape the land.
But no! It was surely the inevitability, unpredictability of time that caused that elm to be there! The whispering winds must have floated its seeds across the moors under the moon’s watching eyes; till the seed came to rest in this place.
With a certainty, it was God who placed the tree there. In the brilliance of his intelligent design he broke the endless moor with a single blink – nothing goes unmissed.
Or perhaps many years ago there stood a great elm forest here. The countless trees growing, leaning, twisting together in a logic-less pattern. And then over time the forest decayed, the illness smothering each tree, killing them off one by one until a single misfit, a single loner remained.
Perhaps you’ll never know.