The Write on Wednesday Spark - The nature of place
Think about a place in nature that feels special to you. Perhaps it is somewhere you visited as a child. Or maybe you share a special outdoor space with your own children. This place, this space will be your prompt for this week's writing exercise. Write about a particular natural geography, a natural place or space close to your heart. Tell us about the weather, the landform , the creatures who live there, what the place means to you and why. You can write prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction and/or a photographic narrative. You might mix the landscape with a personal story. Wherever the prompt take you...Let us peek into your place.
First of all, I deleted my last weeks enrty from WoW after a sligh crisis of confidence - I didn't realise it had been read until Gill alerted me to a comment left by another writer and I wanted to say thank you to Sjp for your kind comment and to Gill for following it up and next time, I'll let you decide if it's worth reading :)
The steep bank was the first obstacle.
By standing in the middle of the road you could take a run up to it catching hold of branches that snapped and snagged at your clothing as your feet slipped and the long grasses entwined themselves around your ankles.
Finally grasping the rotting wood of the bottom plank of the stile and hauling yourself into a sitting position for a moment to catch your breath and survey the path leading into the woods.
Little used and overgrown, invisible to the undiscerning eye, and yet leading to a place of enchantment and wonder for those who had trodden the path before.
The woods were always cool even in the height of summer filled with the rich fruity smell of decay. The ground soft and springy with the mulch of bygone years.
Fungi, bright orange, like some misplaced coral reef sprouted from the fallen tree trunks whilst on the ground below, like drab poor relations, the small grey toadstools huddled in groups like half closed umbrellas.
The light was dim with an aura of green that you could almost taste.
Every sound muffled and muted by the canopy of leaves high above.
There was no birdsong, no rustle of tiny creatures here. This wood had it's own sounds ...
A rhythmic ticking as regular as the tick of an old fashioned mantle clock.
A faint munching as some unseen insect feasted on rotting wood.
The occasional thud as a falling branch hit the ground.
It wasn't a place to venture alone.
At the beginning of the long summer holidays it was an idea that was mooted, a plan that was formulated, cogitated, dicussed and discarded and yet, once the threads of the plan had woven their way into the imagination of our small group, it would tug and pull until the day we, full of laughter and bravado, teasing and goading made out way to the edge of the woods leading to Black Rock.