moss - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The moss sits hedgehog-like on the stone, softly hibernating, gently green. Kelsey plucks it, surprised by the wetness that remains from the morning rain when every other thing has been dried by the sun.
The only thing that softens the pain of the burns is the moss, freezing cold and wet as it is. I thank God for this stream, these plants, a small reprieve in this forsaken place. As long as I live I will never tire of gentle green, the spongy feel, because in this world we need all the divine medication we can get.
The stalks stand tall from the sponge of moss, almost ready to spread the tiny spores over the bank of the stream. To Mia's hand it feels cool, refreshing, quite the opposite of the warm day outside of the woods.
The children gathered moss and threw it in the old hessian sacks. They curled fingers, like pale starfish, around the springy green clumps. It came away more easily than picking a stone from the highland paths and was lighter by far. The sun was high overhead by the time they could fit no more in, even with several of them squashing it down with both hands. They set off for home dragging their haul in their wake, letting it bounce over the tufty grass. Once dried in the summer sun for a few weeks the moss would line the pits of winter vegetables, keeping them dry whilst the natural refrigeration of the earth kept them cool. What was left would insulate the stone walls, keeping out the wintry drafts.
Masiy took it for granted that walls were made of stones that had been placed together like almost-fitting pieces from random jigsaws. As far as she was concerned they were beautiful, ever adorned with their virescent mosses, soft to the touch, giving life to the inanimate. Yet here in her new home amid the tower blocks of the city they were mostly brick with coarse lichen and graffiti. Any moss would be thin and sickly looking. There was no bounce to it and its colour was too dark or yellowing. It was mean looking and fragmented too easily. Everything here was different, busy, polluted and alien.
The moss clung to the stone wall like green snow, clinging to the crevices and lying on the upper surfaces.
Some years ago he had taken the top layer off his lawn, put down some quality soil and reseeded it with grass. Now it was as if he'd never done it. The moss had returned to the shady, damp garden lawn. It was thick and as springy to walk on as a thin mattress. He could peel it off in great clumps to reveal the dark mud beneath, but what was the point? The moss had claimed the garden for it's own.
The moss hung from the decaying branches of the forest trees like green cobweb curtains. It looked as though it would cling to you if you tried to walk through it, smothering your face, getting in your mouth. Annie shuddered and poked it with a stick. It was stiffer than it looked, matted like hair, and still damp with morning dew.