For
a long time now I have visited a nearby woodland - well, it's more of a copse
really - a chestnut copse - an ancient chestnut copse, that was once worked by
woodsmen who earned their living from the trees. Now long abandoned and left to its own devices
inhabited only by creatures of the night.
A secret silent place, save for the soughing of the wind in the tree
tops, the sound of the songbird and the sudden flapping of wings from a startled pigeon.
There
are no trails or pathways to follow as I wind my way through the semi-darkness
looking for the light. Just me, alone
with my thoughts, scrunching on dead leaves and spikey chestnut husks; snapping dead
twigs with each footstep.
A
squirrel follows me from high above, racing along the gnarled and twisted limbs
of the trees. The woodland floor is lush
with snagging brambles and nettles that sting my ankles and bluebells gone to
seed. Where the canopy is spare shafts
of sunlight shine through and dapple
everything with spheres of light.
There
are humps and hollows in the dry earth where the badgers have made their homes
and come out to play as evening falls. Evidence of rotten
trees that fall in high winds, no one to hear them as they tumble and crash
through the undergrowth.
Out
in the light bracken grows shoulder high
and saplings flourish - there is green of every hue, inviting you
further in as you lose all sense of time and direction.
Making
my way slowly to the edge of the wood I see a clearing with sheep grazing
contentedly in the fields beyond - I blink in the bright daylight as I take in
the patchwork of fields on the horizon. Such a bucolic sight and one that I
hold dear. I wander around a little more
then make my way back to the road - the spell is broken - but this special
place of quiet tranquility is imprinted
on my memory, till the next time I feel the need to visit.
Elaine