Forest - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The forest is my light and air, the deep brown earth that elevates each step with its ever-giving soul.
A billion verdant wands of pine wave in arboreal air; for this place is magical, so much so that you can feel it from core to finger tips.
The forest silences the clocks, for this place of root and branch is the dominion of the eternal soul.
From the rich brown earthen hues of the forest ground to the sweetness of the blue-white sky, the forest is a three dimensional wonderland for the eyes who are willing to absorb the light.
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.
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.
Perhaps it would be a fitting tribute to the life work of Sir David Attenborough, as well as a much needed step to save our own souls, to ban the sale of all furniture made from new wood. Such a step would be positive shift in the economy and the way we live. Jobs in refurbishment and the antique industry would flourish - we'd gain more carpenters and artists who can work from home. As we move into more plant based diets the stems of wheat and other plant materials could be used in furniture production. We can amend the way we live, taking inspiration from other cultures. Many eat sitting on the floor, thus doing away with dinning tables and dining chairs. How about sleeping more Japanese style with a mattress that rolls up during the day - no wooden frame. We use recycled and reclaimed materials too - perhaps the harvesting of plastic from the oceans for reuse will gain financial viability as well as being the right thing to do.
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."
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.
And upon the forest floor so woven with ancient tree roots came a light filtered by the bouquet of foliage above: softened, verdant and freshly aromatic.
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 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.