Aluredian
37
Creative King's
T
he forest of Coombe Dingle
lies veiled by trees. Trees
which in the autumn shudder
and allow their crisp leaves to
gather around their trunks in
rust-coloured heaps. Many of
the sycamores and poplars strain forward
towards the river as if they were bowing, or
praying to this seemingly infinite rush of water.
If you enter the forest at the right point you
reach a path that follows the route of the Hazel
Brook. It was along this path that I found
myself wandering. Aimlessly wondering would
perhaps be a more accurate description of my
movements through the sun-bleached
woodland that day. Nevertheless it was easy to
feel calm amongst the quiet breathing of the
river and the whisper of the leaves I shuffled
through.
Summer lay heavily in the air. I felt the prickle
of midges on my face, aggravated by the
humidity, and smelt the dry earth that made up
the pathway. It soon became clear that the
path was climbing higher, moving away from
the hum of the water and up into the valley
where an uneven circle of grass sprawled out
ahead. It was quiet. The fragile creatures of
the trees had retreated into the undergrowth
and lay waiting for stillness to permit their
escape once again.
The grass that carpeted the meadow was
damp; as if the watchful evergreens had not
allowed the sun to do its work. A few cautious
paces forwards placed a tree in my view,
whose leaves sighed and danced above the
confines of the forest. It stood proudly, like a
self-assured soldier, its roots breaking from the
ground and clinging to the earth that
surrounded it. It was not the size or apparent
power of this tree that made it so fascinating.
It was the fact that as I approached it I saw
that from its base climbing several metres
upwards it was carved with the careful dates
and initials of those who had visited this
seemingly isolated and undiscovered sanctum.
The higher up the bark the more aged and
warped the names became, it was as though
they had strained and contorted themselves to
account for the growth of their host.
It stood motionless, lonely; unaware that across
its brown skin was evidence that it was forever
visited.
Where the Hazel Brook
joins the River Trym
by Joan Middleton, 61
Isabelle Arliss A2