short stories
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MARCH – The Season of Hope
Far away a lonely bell was ringing, and it echoes through my mind, for here I come when fuss and fret seems set to overwhelm. As I stop to listen, I could hear the cries of the herring gulls sailing high above. Suddenly two gulls fall from the sky, the male then begins a long-drawn-out cry raising and lowering his head. His cries are audible above the thrum of the traffic close by, and intrude my thoughts, arresting my attention. He then dances for her with potent perplexing sounds, woven into dense mesmeric spells, which hide inside its complexity and posits the existence of an invisible natural force.
The seaside Adventures Of Woodrow the Woodlouse
Woody the woodlouse makes his way home from school one day; He couldn’t wait to tell his mum what Mr. Slater his teacher what he had taught him in the classroom. .
Our Distant and Day Long Rambles
Beneath the flailed clippings of a hawthorn hedge is the home of Fidget and her little friend Piccolo. This is the place where Bob and his trusty spaniel Blue would frequent every morning, a little lane which winds like loose string baffling your sense of direction.
A little bit of heaven on earth
The wind and rain was raw and mean and would change but for a moment. It would touch your face as soft as a feather, and then all of a sudden the cold would hit you once again, for when nature’s birthing spring, she gets right down to it.
galleries and umtitumps
In the early summer, when the hedgerows are white with May (the blossom of the hawthorn), the scent of which is heavy upon the breeze, and the birds singing lustily above, the spirit of the times is felt even underground by the mole—the blind miner whose senses are so keen it triggers him to start breeding in earnest.
AUGUST – The Mute Season
It is now early August, the lanes and the woods are silent, without the pellucid sound of birds singing. Only the yellowhammers in the hedgerows are with song. In the skies above the cries of the buzzards can be heard. This is the time when birds begin their summer moult to replace their suit of feathers ready for the harshness of winter.
In the shadowed wilds
In the shadowed wilds of mature deciduous woodland where the trees are throttled by the ivy, the wood anemones now steal the show, cloaking the ground and blooming like a galaxy of stars. The random clumps of snow piercers (snowdrops) their white beauty now faded have provided a much needed food supply for the early bees.
A Show of Summer Softness
In a small enclave of a wooded copse is a place so delightful and yet so often goes unnoticed and unsung. Here is a place to see wonders great and small; it is the little puzzles and magical ploys it presents to us, where adventures are to be experienced and secrets discovered where no eyes can follow
An Oasis of Calm
In the heart of every winter is a quivering spring and with the rain now shrunk to a drizzle, the limpid grey clouds are brighter and clearer for my sake.
Thunderheads and Lightning
It was now early July, the morning was fine, the sky blue, and the clouds below like fluffy white balls of cotton. The lane was awash with the great willowherb, a splash of pinkish mauve amongst the tall umbellifers. There was an abundance of golden yellow ragwort, this plant being the distain of many, but not for the ephemeral wings of the cinnabar moth who rears her yellow and black striped caterpillars on this tenacious plant.
JUNE-Flaming June
It is now early June, and the sky was full of gold, painting the little lane with summer magic. The air was alive and humming with bees collecting sweetness from the daisied fields. I love the luxuriant profusion and mad scatter of our wonderful wildflowers, and the vast array of male hoverflies carousing around them.
The nature of time
I have often wondered about the nature of time, we can’t see it or touch it, yet it’s there every moment of our lives. Time is the most precious thing we are given on earth.
MARCH – The Season of Hope
Far away a lonely bell was ringing, and it echoes through my mind, for here I come when fuss and fret seems set to overwhelm. As I stop to listen, I could hear the cries of the herring gulls sailing high above. Suddenly two gulls fall from the sky, the male then begins a long-drawn-out cry raising and lowering his head. His cries are audible above the thrum of the traffic close by, and intrude my thoughts, arresting my attention. He then dances for her with potent perplexing sounds, woven into dense mesmeric spells, which hide inside its complexity and posits the existence of an invisible natural force.
DECEMBER -Winter’s Grim
The heavy rainfall in November had silvered every twig and branch with heavy raindrops, that slide gently, merging into depths and flooding the land. The water lay in vast catchments over long periods as the ground was already turgid enticing many gulls inland. Like technicolour snowflakes, the autumn leaves had fallen silently without the merest whisper of a sound, a palette of many colours now lying dormant that will decay and become vital nourishment, given freely without delay.
AUGUST – The Mute Season
It is now early August, the lanes and the woods are silent, without the pellucid sound of birds singing. Only the yellowhammers in the hedgerows are with song. In the skies above the cries of the buzzards can be heard. This is the time when birds begin their summer moult to replace their suit of feathers ready for the harshness of winter.
JULY-Thunderheads and Lightning
It was now early July, the morning was fine, the sky blue, and the clouds below like fluffy white balls of cotton. The lane was awash with the great willowherb, a splash of pinkish mauve amongst the tall umbellifers. There was an abundance of golden yellow ragwort, this plant being the distain of many, but not for the ephemeral wings of the cinnabar moth who rears her yellow and black striped caterpillars on this tenacious plant.
JUNE-Flaming June
It is now early June, and the sky was full of gold, painting the little lane with summer magic. The air was alive and humming with bees collecting sweetness from the daisied fields. I love the luxuriant profusion and mad scatter of our wonderful wildflowers, and the vast array of male hoverflies carousing around them.
Purple Rain
As I slumber in a mantle that covers all human thoughts, I am awakened by the rain. Sweeping across the fields outside my window it lashes the panes leaving artistic rivulets of water obscuring my view. But the wind soon lost its strength and began to blow more leisurely. I like watching places wake up, the changing light, the mood of the sky and the freshness of the new morning. I love to listen to the song thrush that sings its song twice, but sadly not this morning.
A Calm Repose
My first visit to this peaceful place felt like a communion of sound and colour that was to open new creative possibilities. My new senses act like an antenna picking up signals. I began to tune in to the sound of my steps, feel the wind, the sound of the swaying branches. My mind makes space for what is to come. I take a breath or two, lose my eyes and tune into my new surroundings. The feeling I have is calm and uplifting. It took me back to something I may have lost a long time ago and had forgotten.
The Language of Trees
The transfixing power of the language of the trees is immense. Trees are very sociable and care for and support one another. They hide many wonders that we are only just beginning to understand, they experience pain and have memories too.