Aluredian
38
S
tanding in this array of wildlife one
can still sense those who walked
here long ago, prior to my
existence. They are mere shadows
on the peripheries of my vision,
whispers on the wind that rustles
through the branches. Yet they are here, still.
Before me the path winds into the unknown;
I lose sight of the damp, trodden earth as it
becomes hidden by the falling willows
obstructing my sight. But if I close my eyes
and listen, shutting out the sounds of modern
humanity so that all I can hear is nature, for a
moment all is quiet. But then, floating on the
breeze, a laugh can be heard from in front;
echoes of the children that used to play in
these woods before they were taken long before
their time. The ancient trees still retain in their
memory these fleeting moments of happiness;
the sweet smiling faces of innocence, the highpitched
screams, and the patter of tiny feet that
has left these pathways so trodden and bare.
Eventually I move on. I now stand before a
curious, dilapidated building. Two small towers
frame what appears to be a patio. A lone
bench is placed in the centre. From far off it
appears lived in, and for a moment I hope that
the laughter in the woods was children from
the present who have led me to their home,
and not children from the past who will no
longer breathe the damp, mossy air filling my
lungs. Cautiously I creep ever closer, not
expecting the sharp pain in my chest as I
realise what lies before me is a ruin, and has
been for almost a century. The gothic arched
windows are cracked; ivy grows between the
panes and climbs the still beautiful cobbled
stone walls. The doors are gone, leaving
gaping archways into the dark gloom of
desolation. I sense an echo of romance, as
though in years before a young couple would
escape to this tranquil fort and enjoy each
other's company. Here they spent many
afternoons, the peaceful rays of the sun being
the only thing to intrude upon their happiness.
But it was a happiness doomed not to last.
Sweet Mary Anne's untimely death is reflected
in the decay of the building; the loss of life, the
loss of love is visible in the worn cobbles. Her
children that died young are those I heard
running ahead of me, shrieking with enjoyment.
And all the while their mother still sits in her
hidden idyll, preserved among the trees,
ensuring they meet no harm. She still mourns
for them, feels it was her fault, and wishes it
had been her instead of them.
I shiver, suddenly cold despite the warm
autumn sun. This place has left me feeling
empty and alone - I cannot remain here.
I emerge out of the dense thicket and the
whole world seems to have opened up; a small
pond lies before me, the still and silent waters
reflecting the azure skies, patches of bright
white against the dark depths. It is so
beautiful, so tranquil; a stark contrast to the
forlorn remnants remaining amongst the trees.
I cannot help but smile as I recall his romance
with the much younger Cornelia. From all
accounts she was a picture, the most beautiful
girl to walk these parts. And she's here, still.
Reflected in the picturesque flowers that grow
on the banks of the pond; I imagine him
picking them for her, placing the sweet purple
petals in her hair; I can still smell their sweet
aroma on the air. At my feet they lie trodden
into the soil; their life together is no longer.
The sun reflects off the raindrops that remain
on the leaves, creating iridescent spectrums of
intricate beauty. An essence of her; they are
the tears that used to rest on her eyelashes;
whether they be tears of joy as she laughs at
her foolish lover, or tears of suffering and
genuine torment as she struggles to fill the
footsteps of her predecessor and senses her
shadow watching her every move.
Across the waters a stone wall is erected.
It rises far above my head, creating a sense of
mystery - I can only guess what secrets it
encloses. A small wrought iron gate provides
the only insight, but it is partially hidden by a
veil of leaves, protecting this inner sanctuary.
The delicate arcs of the gate have become
tarnished by time, yet they hold fast, allowing
no intruder to pass by them. Their inner
secrets remain unknown and mysterious. As I
peer through I imagine Cornelia nurturing her
garden, spending hours alone here among the
Taking the
theme of
'Writing by
Land and
by Water'
61 pupils
explored
locations
important to
them, in prose
and poetry