Forest - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In the forest I breathe in every way that it is possible to expand: in lungs, in brain in soul. In the forest there is a sense of kinship with the flora, of an ancient soul that stretches into everything that lives. It is here under the nascent rays of a sun born to rise each day that I am so very alive. How could I not love the forest so? From simple seed, with mud, water and sun, comes all this, these towering gentle giants that are so anchoring to all that I am.
The forest hums with life all around me. I twirl about, gazing up at the canopy, searching for the birds that sing sweetly. The sun breaks through the cracks, lighting up the dirt path ahead of me, decorated with outgrown roots, wildflowers and fallen leaves that crunch beneath my bare feet. I trudge on, taking in the fragrance of minty grass and the damp earth. Each breathe is like water, fresh and cleansing, flowing freely into my lungs.
She was wandering the forest of her dreams, only hearing her feet tread, hearing the cracking twigs and leaves underfoot. A smell of timidness hovers in the air... no clue of what is ahead! Clutching her fists tightly, she keeps moving forward. Voices are coming nearer... whisperings! As she comes closer, she finds a family of oak trees chatting together …….she is amused! As she walks along everything goes silent... Suddenly there is a voice from the ground... it is an old acorn laying down with its crumbled body and lichen decorating its skin. It murmurs, “Hello, dear!!” and gives a smile. Though there are lots of lively acorns hung on the trees, the one with the scars of wisdom shows courteousness…..welcoming her. She feels a bit relieved and smiles back, yet is soon confused! Lots of questions cross her mind... she has embarked this adventure with no destination, only curiosity of what is beneath!!
The sun is bright, radiating the warmth across the distance, though she is feeling frigid inside. She is tired and in need for a little rest, sitting on a big elm tree log, Hearing sweet laughters coming from where she was sitting! Looking around she found a hole in the log and took a glance through it! She was surprised of what she had seen, baby squirrels with their mother telling them a funny story. It reminded her of something... her heart went fervent! She did not disturb them because she knew she had a long way to go. Walking some distance she came to the top of a hill where she was standing she saw a brook stretching along the sight with beautiful shinning waters, it had induced her to come down and she went down following the waters. Enjoying the scenery along sides the brook where the flowers were dancing, the bees singing lovely songs, sucking the nectar and sprinkling the pollens all around ...... the trouts were racing with her splashing water up high !!!
In this forest I am with my tribe of wood and leaf, among the giants who's roots hug the earth. It is a place of ancient souls, of the creatures who dwell with the sweet sounds of moving water and bird song. Somehow this is more home than home, perhaps one day I'll learn why.
It is to the forest I go for rest, for serenity that flows as cool river waters. There is something about the sparkle upon the blue, a melody without a rhythm, music without sound. Above wave the great arms, clothed in the greens of every palate and none, the verdant hues of nature's free dreams. In that place I become a part of that art, of that three dimensional creation of time and space, of a greater evolutionary span than my brain can fathom. It's when I stop knowing and begin feeling, it's when I hear with my heart the voices of these mighty trees, "Sister, welcome."
Upon the forest floor lie trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind Sarah of seaside waves; even the colour of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft, damp, yet her fingers come away dry. Sarah tilts her head upward, feeling her hair tumble further down her back; the pines are several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of spring. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself upon her freckled face, rose-pink lips semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before she knows it her feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it's morning-time and no-one expects her home until supper.
When the day is growing old and the hearth calls, the sun sinks down beneath the tops of the pines. The light streaks through the boughs in both brilliant and shadowy beams. In the summertime they were white gold, illuminating the greens into virescent riots; yet the gift of those warm days has passed for the season. On these wintry days the fogs cast those same beams of light into sepia tones and the woodland becomes the most beautiful of photographs. The trunks of fallen trees bare icicles longer than my hand, no two of them the same - more enchanting than any work of man. Every twig and blade of grass grows winter "leaves" of ice crystals, frost deeper than the fleece in my gloves. And never is the woodland silent, though it is quieter than any city street for sure. There are the birds above, calling, pecking for grubs. There is movement of mammals, mostly small, sometimes not. There is is the water that flows quietly until it meets the sharp rocky scree slopes and forms the waterfalls I love so much.
The forest that was once so alive now chills me. In this thirty degree heat I'm actually shaking. The trees that sheltered so many with their spreading canopy of green and provided so much are now lifeless sticks of charcoal, no more vibrant than the old lamp-posts in the city. The unfettered light illuminates the scorched ground and still that smell of burning lingers despite the rain. They couldn't beat us in court so they brought cheap petrol and a five cent matchbook. Who will stand in the way of their progress now? If I were to close my eyes I would still see the virescent mosaic above, feel the humid air and hear the sounds of the frogs. But I won't, I can't. This reality was cruel enough the first time when we stood mute before the flames, I don't think I could survive that again.
The forest is the orchestra of my mind, playing one enchanting symphony after another. Her leaves dance to an unheard beat, whispering their songs to the wind. In here, sheltered by the mighty trees, is every kind of life, from the humble beetle to enchanting birds of every colour. I hold my hands up to feel the cascading light, a brilliant white shaft illuminating the path that takes me onward and home.
I once asked Mica to describe the forest, she paused, gave the faintest of smiles and spoke softly. "In the forest the sky vanishes almost completely, only a few fragments of blue remain- like scattered pieces of an impossible jigsaw puzzle. The air is rich with the fragrance of leaves and loam, damp too. Even so many hours after the rains have passed, the soil remains wet, slowly releasing its heady fog. Outside is the noon daylight, the powerful rays of early summer, but in here everything is cool and the colours have the softness of that time just before twilight. The only movement is the occasional bird, startling in a tree or a squirrel dashing up a nearby trunk. The sound of running water in the brook has the same hypnotic quality as music, I want to stop just to drink in the sound. The huckleberries are mostly red, tart but with just the right amount of sweetness. I take in all the air my lungs will hold and expel it slowly. These hikes in the forest are like a trip out of my life, a visit to somewhere the measuring of time is done only by the rising and setting of the sun."
The forest was ancient. The trees thick and old, roots that were twisted. It might once have been filled with bird-song and animals that roamed. But now it was ages past its former glory. It's canopy was so dense that you could only see the occasional streak of sunlight that rarely touched the forest floor. Even its thick vines were slowly taking away the last remnants of the temple that stood in the centre.
The forest was one of those places which had no palpable reason to exist. It was a creaking shack created by nature to serve as a reminder that things could always be much, much worse. The unnatural, choking mist that swirled and sprawled on the forest floor was the first thing that spoke of a strange sort of wrongness. The sickly white substance seemed to possess liquid properties which only reminded of the maggot-like texture of the eyes of a dead man who had been forgotten in his apartment for a few months, ready to burst at the slightest touch. The smoke made no sound however and only parted to swallow up her feet as she marched upon the giant dead, festering eyeball of the forest floor. The sound of mushy and dead leaves whispered from under the skin of the mist.
I never wear shoes in the forest. I know there are bugs and sharp sticks but I need the feel of the earth between my toes. I have to touch the rough bark and break leaves in my hands to smell them. I need to look up at the leaves, glowing as the light passes through them. In this way the harshness of the sun is muted, its rays are softer, less brilliant. The air is freshest after a rainfall and the water seeps from the path over my toes with each step. I know I must look a sight, but I take the paths less traveled and you'd be amazed at how few people I can meet. Here my thoughts fly to the canopy above, free, but protected by the boughs. My emotions sink back to base-line, a reboot for my brain. Then when I am ready to emerge I pull the rubber boots from my backpack, rinse my feet from a water bottle and put on the thick socks my mother is expecting to be on my feet. If she ever knew she'd glue them on and that would really ruin things.
The ground of these forests, formed from the remains of trees falling, in successive generations, for centuries, is most eccentric: sometimes raising itself in the shape of a mountain, to descend suddenly into a muddy swamp, peopled by hideous alligators wallowing in the green slime, and by millions of mosquitoes swarming amidst the fetid vapours exhaled, sometimes extending itself endlessly in plains of a monotony and regularity truly depressing.
Ahead the forest trees are thinner, a clearing perhaps or a glade? As we draw closer we can see that it is neither. The firm ground gives way to a marsh of tall reeds, the soil submersed in water. The autumn sunlight falls directly onto a tree trunk, likely felled for just this purpose, a bridge. There is no hand rail, nothing to steady oneself. The drop isn't dangerous, just one hell of a messy landing. With one careful boot I test the bark. It's damp with a smattering of moss, likely the sunrays keep the worst of it off. It isn't too slippery, but it's no concrete sidewalk. It's has a girth of about three arm spans, yet the top is still curved. Time to take a deep breath and just go- eyes on my feet and the next half metre of tree, arms raised like a tightrope walker. Steady. Steady. One footfall at a time until the other bank appears.
The forest path is wide and civilized. The city has used our taxes to lay wood-chips and place garbage bins along the route. The trees are so separated by this swathe they have cut that I still need my sunglasses. The brilliant rays are not dappled but shine hotly from above as strong as at any beach without the benefit of a cooling onshore breeze. But all that will change in twenty minutes, then the noble efforts of the bureaucrats will end and the forest will reassert itself. The path will twist, snaking around the ancient trees. The roots will criss-cross, gnarled and uneven- as beautiful as any picture book illustration. I will take in the colours with unshielded eyes and use my hands where the path rises in steep, uneven rocky steps. I have a map of this place carefully stored in my head. My boots have trodden these paths so often that the soles are wearing thin, but I cannot tire of this place, this forest. I may live in a tower of concrete but my heart will always live here.
It was an early autumn morning and a frosty chill hung in the air. The sweet surrendering scent of the morning dew filled the forest with a scent that did not belong on earth. Autumn leaves from the tall trees lay scattered on the forest floor; each of them turning brittle brown; there was a sound like dried cereal being crunched underfoot, pushing their papery remains deep into the soft soil. The dark shadows of the voluminous trees and the surrounding bushes had become the backbone of the forest, standing as passive protectors of a peaceful place. The autumn sun rose in a hurry as if trying to make up for setting too early the evening before, blooming into the pale sky with a warm mellow glow, sending what was left of the moon packing until its next shift guarding the night. By mid morning sky was a brilliant baby blue. As the morning developed the sound of young birds filled the air: chirping, tweeting and warbling incessantly.
The lake had been hardened by the sharp cold unforgivingness of an icy frost, the translucent water bound as a smooth solid. The wildlife were bold yet cautious of figuring out their new visitor, daring to get closer to have a look at the foreign creature disturbing their peace. As the day went on the forest came to life. The trees dance in the wind, the sound of running water in the stream had the same hypnotic quality as music luring animals in to have drink, to taste the warm sweet sensation of fresh water. The drone of insects humming and buzzing filled the air, little frogs croaked while searching for food hoping to catch an easy snack.
The forest does not care for seconds or minutes, even hours are inconsequential. The smallest measure of time here is the cycle of daylight and darkness. Even then the forest is more in tuned with the seasons: rebirth brought by the warmth of spring, darkened foliage from summer's kiss, the onset of fall and then the keen bite of winter. Here in the forest so little can happen in the time it takes for me to change from a child into a woman, to gain and loose so much. Perhaps that is why I love to be here- it stabilizes the rapidity of my thoughts, grounds me in a place where ticking of clocks is unregarded. A place where I can let go of the demands of technology. Cell phone off. Just me, the trees and my good boots. I only need care for the sun's position in the sky. Free therapy. Reboot. Reset.
An early autumn morning and there was a frosty chill in the air. The sweet surrendering scent of the morning dew fills the forest with a scent that does not belong on earth. The autumn leaves from the tall trees lay scattered on the forest floor; they were in motion of turning brittle brown, there was the sound like weetabix being crunched when you stood on them, pushing their papery remains deep into the soft soil. The dark shadows of the voluminous trees and the surrounding bushes had become the backbone of the forest. The trees stood as passive protectors of this peaceful place. As the autumn sun rose in a timely hurry as if trying to make up for setting too early the evening before, the sun bloomed into the pale sky with a warm mellow glow, sending what is left of the numskulled moon packing until its next shift guarding the night. The mid-morning sky was a brilliant bright baby blue. As the morning developed the sound of young birds began to fulfill the air with a lovely feel, they chirped, tweeted and warbled incessantly.
The lake had been hardened by the sharp cold unforgivingness have an icy frost, the translucent water was bound as a smooth solid which showed potential of being a warm crisp lake. The wildlife were bold but cautious of figuring out their new visitor. Daring to get closer to have a look at the foreigner disturbing their peace. As the day goes on the Forest comes to life, the trees dance in the wind, the sound of running water in the stream is has the same hypnotic quality as music luring animals in to have drink, to taste the warm sweet sensation of fresh water.
All the trees were tightly-knit, just one strand in a massive web of life. Green leaves, yellow leaves, red leaves. It was a rainbow of rich, autumnal colours. The scent of earth and water drifted through the air. It was a picture of serenity, one which would endure for many long years.
The bushes and trees of low growth had disappeared, to make room for gigantic mahogany trees, century old cork trees, and the acajou, whose sombre branches formed a vaulted roof of green eighty feet above his head. The path had grown wider, and stretched, in a gentle incline, towards a hillock of moderate height, entirely free from trees.
The drone of insects humming started the usual routine of awaking dawn. Slowly, the forest came alive with the layers of sounds echoing in the cold morning air. Little frogs croaked under large, broad leaves. The webs were stringed with delicate drops of morning dew, glistening in the first shards of sunlight. While the all the humans were still asleep in slumber land, the animals in every corner of the earth are awaiting for a new dawn.
The trees had become personal. They became individuals with emotional value,
one evoking darkness and another standing in the light of some wisdom. It was
refreshing, not to be alone, but scary when the huge trees looked down with stern judgment. So, walking among them was a joy and a fearful experience at the same time.
She dashed through the woods, leaping over thin winding creaks and the slippery rocks. She dodged and zipped past rotting oak trees and under lowered and snapped branches. Everything blurred into dizzying blend of earthly colours. The earth was wet and moist under her bare pink skin. She jumped into a muddy brook, swollen by the recent rains, soaking up her dress. The woods began to widen and thin layers of fallen pine needles and sentinels disguised the perilous and rocky terrain. She ran besides the twisted creek which was mirrored the deep greens of the trees. She leaped over a fallen pine tree which had damned the flow. She opened her ears to the mouth of the treetops and listened to the trees, as they sang the songs of life.
The woods, serene, calm, beautiful, natures garden. Oaks, Beech, Silver Birch, Holly bushes, winding path of mud gets boggy in places as it falls into gullies and rises up the hill, Sound or tinkling water, a stream rushes by in it's steep sided ditch, splashing on the rocks, cascading down small waterfalls, carrying twigs and leaves into small natural dams, leaves dance gaily on trees up above, dapple the light, intermittent shade, bird song rises and falls in sweet melodious chorus, snow drops amidst the trees, squirrels scamper and scurry up and down tree trunks.
Dark spruce forest frowned on either side of the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land.
deep green pine forest, forest floor covered in dry brown needles, lake of brackish water, reflection of tall pines in the lake, fallen tree rotting in the lake now a hiding place for fish, lily pads, flowers basking in the sunlight, dragonflies.
The forest that stood here now was eerie. I had once played in it when I was young with the other children. I look at it now and I would smile if I didn't know where the people went when they never came back... My house had stood near it before the fire, now what stood there was rubble and burnt pieces of memories that would be long forgotten.... And it was all its fault.... That thing that killed my brother....
Wide path, trees thinning, denser undergrowth, glade encircled by trees, babbling brook, stream, waterfall, ground gently rising, low wooded knoll, rocky cliff, rotting trees clawed by bears, witches broom high up in the pines.
Darkly foreboding, ominous sounds, creaking, whispering trees, thicker leaves and thick undergrowth at the forest edge, overhanging branches, narrow and twisting path, denser wood, choked with brambles, matted undergrowth, thick bushes, ditch, sprawling branches, stiff branches.
innumerable sizes and shapes, massive girth, mighty oaks, towering glaucous pines, trunks straight, bent, twisted, gnarled, knotted, leaning, squat, green with moss, shaggy, slimy, lichen covered, interlacing roots, thick undergrowth, huckleberry bushes, ferns, no undergrowth, bare earth, barren.
Bugs zipped in and out of my ears, humming and buzzing their little annoying songs. Mosquitoes landed on the only exposed skin I had, but I quickly slapped them away. Through the itchiness of bugs being in my general vicinity, I managed to get my boot stuck in a marsh puddle on the bank of the green-brown stream. The mud sucked on my foot before I got the steadiness to shake my foot free and flick off some of the soggy clods. The earth released my foot with slushy but undeniable pop!
Rain fell on the forest canopy covering dense and tangled vegetation. Bowl-shaped plants caught the rainwater. Beetles, snails, flies and frogs continued their activities.
Alea heard the whisper of the little aspen leaves dancing in the slight breeze that toyed with her light brown hair. Her ears faintly distinguished the echoing sounds of forest animals far away, and the birds' sweet songs. She took a deep breath; the scent of pine mingled with the breeze. The forest seemed alive with little hidden secrets that only it knew.
Rain pattered on Clare's leather jacket. Dawn's rays lit up the forest as the drizzle mingled on leaves. The bright treetop chirps echoed all around, creating a symphony unique to the eastern woodlands. Kilah tilted her head towards the rising sun, breathing in a new day's promise. They allowed the forest's rhythm to soothe them. Today was step one. A fresh page. The beginning.
Mum, Dad, I’m coming. Hang in there.
As she wandered down a shallow slope, Lionheart came upon a small glade where the trees broke their formation, laying out a steep sunken clearing with a perfect ring of white mushrooms at the centre, gleaming like gold. She called out, but when only a hollow echo answered, she stepped on down into the circle. The shadows eased as she did so, and she stood among a ring of dancing elves, their gossamer gowns faint as mist trailing in an absent breeze, their voices fair like the song of the loon to the music of the harp. Hair fell like golden rain to unclothed feet that kissed the barren earth to sprout new bloom. They beckoned her with cheerful faces to join them whirling round and round with joined hands, those that danced never breaking step or swerving from the perfect ring, while others beyond the circle chased each other with graceful glee. Lionheart danced with them. She gladly took their hands and twirled in fiery ringlets. She had not a care in the world. She was free to dance, free to laugh, free to sing, and so she did, feeling the joy rise inside of her like water bubbling out of a little spring to feed a clear brook. So here she stood, with wildflowers rising from the earth, and leaves of green unfurling in the tree-tops. There was new warmth, inviting her lips to smile, and a soft, fragrant breeze lingered in the air. The thin trees around became nothing more than vibrant strains of colour, fair as the melodious music of the harps, and the stars above spun so fast that they painted the sapphire sky with white and yellow strokes. But the visions of elves passed, the song wilted, and the shadows of the woods soon crept back in.