Meadow - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The bees come to our urban meadows, to the wildflowers we planted in our lawns. They buzz around the choir of blooms, nature's music in these sunshine filled moments. The children run through the pathways they make as they play, giggling for all the fun it is to run in such tall grass. This was all it took to save our bees, and ourselves, to plant what has always been here on this land.
The path Mila had taken through the meadow was as visible as any trail in a fresh snowfall. The tall grasses, inflexible in their dryness were flattened from the far hedgerow to the canopy of woodland leaves where she now stood drinking in the shade. She marvelled at her path, so ragged and bent, not at all the straight line she had imagined herself walking. The wild flowers were a cacophony of colour on the fading green; purple thistles, blue cornflowers, red poppies and tall asters with their yellow centres. There was no coordination like the displays in town, just a free-for-all choreographed by the wind.
The meadow was a glorious expanse of grass and meadow flowers, grass rustling gently in the breeze. There was a narrow brook flowing through it choked with weeds. Tall water-mint with pale lilac flowers, like dozens of tiny bells were growing at the edge of the brook.
There was a shallow ditch at edge of the meadow. The grass was thick and lush grass, growing in dense tussocks. The oak tree provided sun-flecked shade, a cool and refreshing respite from the mid-summer sun. The white umbrellas of cow parsley were becoming brown. The rutted track, once boggy was mud hardened and cracked. The meadow lay peaceful in the thickening light of late afternoon.
I woke up in a grassy meadow dotted by petite, fragrant daisies. Their sunshiny centers grinned at me while a soft breeze ruffled the white petals. In awe, I turned around and saw little pink butterflies lazily flitting around the lush grass and dipping their tiny feet into a clear, bubbling brook. The sky was a deep blue and an occasional cloud would bounce across the heavens like a dancing sheep. With a sigh, I wistfully stared upwards as the sun basked my face in its yellow rays of glory.
The meadow was a riot of colour. The burnt orange Butterflyweed stood tall amongst the grasses and the prairie Black-eyed Susans appeared to reflect the brilliant yellow of the sun herself. The Prairie Blazingstar stood like tall purple bushy cat-tails. Near the edges of the lazy river grew the blue-violet Wild Irises, tall and proud. It was a place I could go with my sketching pad and draw until the light drained from the sky.
The meadow was a shallow basin that was surrounded by the tallest of pine trees. I wondered if in the rainy season it became something like a shallow pond in the middle, or at the very least it would be waterlogged. Indeed the grass grew long and lush in the rich soil and plentiful supply of water. It was the idyllic place for a picnic and I vowed to bring Mary here as soon as possible. How she would love the lush iridescent pasture.
The meadow was on a gentle slope and interspersed with beech and oak trees. Waves of yellow cascaded down the grassy slope like so much white water over a rock river bed. On closer inspection I could see the clover and the honey bees who were merrily visiting each flower.
And in the meadow was a crowd of poppies, scarlet in the sunshine, waving gaily. How they reminded me of my fallen uncle.
The meadow flowed like a sea of green over the hillock, flecked with the purple of thistles. The two feet deep grass waved in the August breeze. There were tracks running here and there that looked like some children had played hide and seek.
The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows with flowers.