This is a place I have been, an hour I have lived, many times throughout my younger years, that had a strong influence on who I am today!
"A Walk in the Woods"
The day is cool, a brisk little breeze playing with the grass along the edge of the stream where it curls it's way out of the woods before winding back into the shadows. Along the water's edge, and in clusters scattered in the middle of the stream, are Marigolds, their bright yellow flowers crowning the rich green of their leafy bed. The water ripples past them with the urgency of spring in it's step, swirling and bubbling over the rocks, softly gliding along the flats, sparkling where the sun catches it. High above, in the shady poplars & birch, a song is being played as the breeze taps leaf against leaf, in a symphony first loud and rushing, then soft and calm, as the winds dance playfully in the treetops.
Along the brook's edge a beaten path slithers through the grass, winding along the contour of the water. As I make my way along this path the birds join their voices to the music in the trees above, and the occasional rush of wind rattles the rushes at the water's edge. I follow the ups and downs, the winding curves, feeling the lazy warmth of the sun as it beats down on me before I step back into the wood. A fallen tree stretches across the water that slips quietly under it without touching, a rich carpet of moss draped over it's top. Precariously I set first one foot, then the other, as I balance my way across the log. I climb the little hill on the other side, and emerge in a small clearing that is awash with colours as if painted by the wind: the white and yellow daisy, the bright yellow buttercup, fluorescent red and orange paintbrush, and dainty mauve aster, among the carpet of purple and white clovers. Tiny butterflies dance about, and bees buzz from flower to flower on their mission, seemingly bouncing off the blossoms as they pick their nectar. I lay back and close my eyes allowing the leaves to play their soothing tune, and the soft cooling breeze to wash over me as it skips among the tall grasses.
Finally, and reluctantly, I get back to my feet, gather some wildflowers, and make my way back to my mossy bridge, crossing a little less carefully this time, a laugh in my step as I nearly slide off the edge, before landing two feet on solid ground. More lightly now I follow the path, pushing aside leaning branches, stepping over fallen trees, listening to the ripple of the water and the rush of the wind in the leaves, as they keep time with my feet on the earth. Further along I make another detour, this time into a shady glen among the poplar, where I find the treasures hidden in the grass, stepping carefully so as not to trample them. Searching, I stoop, picking the tiny wild violets, stem by stem, ...purple, yellow and white. Then picking my way back to the path I return the way I came, passing the fallen trees and leaning branches, passing my mossy bridge, and out once again into the sun. I dash across the open grass and slip through the fence, making my way out into the field and on, till I am home.
I can almost still hear the wind in the leaves, rustling playfully behind me, and the trickle of the water as it skips over rocks and logs and past Marigolds, as I happily swing my basket of flowers, feel the sun on my face, and watch the clouds lazily making their way across the blue sky above. It has been an hour in a day that has burned itself in my memory, like many others, shaping my very soul. As I walk towards the future, I need only to close my eyes and once again I am there.