Climbing up beneath arches of ash, hazel and oak, aware of the narrow stony, stumbling rise through the the wood.
A holloway of tangled bracken, bramble, hung with an over abundance of old man’s beard. Ivy too, climbed, clung in dark green garlands, twisting its knotted tendrils in a bid to strangle the tightly growing tall trees.
No birds sing.
No breeze stirs the humid August air.
Through a breathable mesh of broken twigs, is a glimpse of the sea!
Caught in perpetual frantic movement the glittering waves dance beneath.
The startling morning sunlight.
On we climb, the path twists and turns blinking in dark and light, until leaving the dark holloway.
To reach a clearing.
Where the widening sky and horizon meet.
And still no birds sing.
Words & Illustration: Hazel Brown
A small family troupe of sparra’s are loving the garden lately.
They peck off the wisteria and apple tree buds.
They jump about the pussy willow.
They hollow down into the soil flapflicking their feathers.
While all the time giving one another plenty of chirp.
Vid & Words: Ian Nisbet
Sketch & Calligraphy: Hazel Brown; Poem: Robert Browning
A beautiful spring day to take a stroll in Tessier Gardens. A quiet park filled with a variety of trees and flowering shrubs, flower beds bursting with tulips, daffodils, primroses and bluebells.
Birdsong echoes around the park, bumblebees… zig zagging lazily humming .. busily buzzing everywhere and anywhere, exploring this sun-filled warm afternoon.
Time out to sit and sketch … a flask of tea… and I am totally surrounded and absorbed by these magnificent trees!
Sketch & Words: Hazel Brown
From where I am, on the top of Wallaford Hill, I look across and see these neatly estranged row of trees.
Zooming in, they look like they’ve been deliberately, intricately, and intentionally, lined up side by side with one another.
To achieve some kind of sculptured show off theatricality.
Like a stand of stagely arranged fussy gentlemen.
Next time I’m up there I’ll have to walk over the field to get a closer look, check them out.
Or maybe it would be best to leave them be. Let their stand alone peculiar singularity stay unchecked, and intact.
Where is this?
Are we in the Honshu forests of Hokkadio?
Are we looking towards the marine pines of Monterey Bay?
No. It’s the top end of Meadfoot beach.
In a wrap-around of shroudy sea mist.
A first. I’ve never seen a crow with a white wing before.
Could be that it, or she, was an old crow. A croney crow.
Her white wing a sign perhaps of great old age.
By the end of this winter she could be completely white.
She seemed to want to befriend the chattery starlings in the silver birch. Join in with their bright sparkly energy.
A second crow flew in. Croney crow ignored him (or her)