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
