by Henry Berry


Rain, and acorns.

Acorn and cupuleAcorns. I can’t miss them. They are all over the wet tarmac. Acorns. Yes, they are heroes. From tiny ones, great oaks. This we know. Acorns are natural celebrities.

But what about the cup that holds them? It has a name. The cupule.

Whereas acorns go on and do mighty things, the humble cupule just carries the acorn to the playing field or the centre of the stage, letting the glory go to its passenger. Nature’s taxi drivers. Parents who ferry kids to and fro, endlessly, thanklessly, but with pride in the act of giving. Love, giving space to the beloved.

The cupule moves me for its own amazing beauty. The way it perfectly holds its acorn. The sheen of its dish. Perfect in form, and beautiful therefore. And miraculous. Water and sunshine made this thing. Millions of them form and fall. Forgotten things. Unnoticed things. Supporters. People wouldn’t even know their name. I didn’t – had to look it up.

The cupules on the wet road set me appreciating all the world’s supporters. Those gentle beings supporting the glories of others.

I stop. Pick one up.

I remember and give thanks for those who have held me, supported me, stood aside for my growth and progress, supported me.

I stand, holding a single cupule.

Is it rain wetting my face?

Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at

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