Positive Mood Writing on a Woodland

Stain-glass leaves were dayshine’s cat’s eyes, glowing bright though bathed in light. Tapetty tap, how they tapped so sweetly in arboreal air as if from it music would come. Though they seemed an infinitude as numerous as springtime rain, they were the tree and thus were one. Even the forest they say is one, no matter the size, even those many mountains broad, for they are connected in the earth via a living network, via fungi spreading as a synapses. One and many, many and one, from leaves to trees to forest and fungi - the semantics of numeracy aside, this place was Annie’s cathedral. 

Positive Mood Writing Set in a Woodland

A bonhomie, a boogaloo, a bouncing skip-a-doodle-doo: that was spring in Willow Woods. The trees were born to boogie-on to a music mankind can’t sense, though some say it is the soul’s miracle-grow. They sing it in aromas so earthy-sweet. Their bark-braille-breeze hums as back-up singers. Yesteryear’s leaves cheer them on with an occasional pom-pom flutter. Lichen and fungi blush brighter. Birds chitter-chatter amid the green polka-dot skies, amid the buds that open into dappled sunny-sighs. 

Negative Mood Writing Set in a Woodland

The zombie woodland was wind whipped, as the wildest staggering horde. Bark slashes were scar-scowls that gnashed, a pathetic frenzy at the fogging gloam. Twisted roots bound them to that desolate scree, that place no heart could beat nor feathered friend chirp. In cool nighttime tones it was rendered black and blue. Bereft of the moon. Bereft of the stars. Condemned to feel their light no more. Zombie rats scurried. Zombie bats screeched. Rot’s stink pervades. Storm clouds are ever coal dark and close. No person of sanity would breach its boundary line, for once crossed there was no way home. 

Negative Mood Writing Set in a Woodland

As if black ink rained upon a window pane were those woodland trees. Twisted tears of things they were, gnarled, contorted, bent. In brackish, sodden, boggy ground, the malodour of rot held hegemony. ‘Twas a decadent decay, bold in foolhardy dereliction. Proud of its detritus, blind and death to beauty, the foul woods were nought but arrogant cadavers.  A kingdom of insects was both its prize and condemnation. This place ‘twas the fate of the damned, where spirits are caged in worthless forms, the eternal prison. 

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--- Creative Writing on Woodland by Angela Abraham ---