tree - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There in the centre of a million grassy wands stands a tree, her bark so patterned as if carved by her own rain-born flash rivers. She stretches up, as if so proud to stand there under the sun in any weather. How I wish she could see her own beauty, her green bounty and earthy browns, yet perhaps I should wish for her peace and the wisdom to simply be what I am.
I imagine each dancing leaf as one from a favourite book, each one with a story of nature, with its own lyrics of the wind and memories of the birds. Each one is art, a bold green with infinite nuance for the eye who dwells in awe and love. This tree, this mighty feat of nature, has taken so many years to grow, all of those tiny moments morphing imperceptibly into the present. Yet that's the thing about growth, it is only when we compare with a sense of the months and years past that we see such amazing changes.
In this light that paints my skin so warmly, the trees are dancing ladies, each in dresses more fabulous than any designer can craft. They move, choreographed by the wind, in perfect time with one another. They are the life and soul of this early summer morning, and I wonder how many hues of green my eyes are witnessing. As they stretch upwards and outwards toward the light, drinking in rays as pure as the rain, I stretch my arms up too, fingers spread toward the sun and slowly begin to dance.
Though the path is dark, cast into shadow by the tall mossy pines on either side, the sun must be brilliant beyond it. Every tree glows brightly virescent just at the edges of the trunks, a biological halo of sorts that brings a soothing happiness I've been missing these past few days.
The tree lifted his branches to the sky as if his very presence was enough to beat back the darkness and command the daylight to fall on his papery leaves. His bark shone like the right kind of gold, the sort that inspires the mind to heady heights of imagination, opening doors to fantastical kingdoms. It was no wonder that the tree is where Charlotte went when her soul needed to recharge, when all the money in the world felt cold but the touch of the trunk and strong branches felt like a hug from the heavens above.
It's skeletal bough's twisted and glittered like brass coils set facing a lambent and curling flame, as the dawn appeared. It's great Bole curved this way and that sprouting new branches that birth a pale green, creating luscious leaves that sparkle in faintest light, and designing a collection of sweet fruits and fragrant flowers. It's massive roots danced in and out of the dirt in abstract waltz's and minuet's as they gripped the hard ground with strapping and powerful limbs. With it's great bough's It strives to touch the sky, and with it's noble roots it strengthens it's hold on the ground.
The tree stands mute in the summer air. The humidity encases us both and like the boughs above me I don't move. I am sprawled on last seasons leaf litter, now soft and most of the way to becoming loam. No longer are the leaves above the delicate shade of new asparagus, they are as deep as winter kale, deeper still where they overlap. Each one is so tiny, and from down here even more so; yet together they almost obscure the sunrays that bring this unbearable heat. Even the birds are silenced, I imagine they are high in the rough limbs, statue like, breathing with open beaks. There is a fragrance here, a distinctive aroma of leaf and soil. Underneath me the ground is lumpy with roots that project though the soil and my loose cotton clothes. They twist like snakes turned to stone, writhing upward one final time before descending deep into the earth to take cool draughts from the water table below. It's all I can do to lie here sweating and breathing, dehydrating until nightfall.
After a life in the camp, behind the tall brick walls, the children stumble through the alien landscape. At first they just watched the trees, they clearly moved their arms in the wind but didn't walk. Their tops were green, but not like that hue they had seen in their meal slops, this colour was not only far more bright but varied in a way they had never seen. Beautiful. But was it dangerous?
At best they had a half-day head start, once the dawn bell rang they would be missed at roll-call and then the trackers would be sent. Jacob was the first to move among the resolute and faceless soldiers; their limbs moved just the same as before, ignoring him entirely. The rest of the runaways ran forwards and looked upward. The sky was mostly obscured by the green shapes, they seemed to be thin and soft. Mikka, the smallest, was first to look down and see a fern, she jumped. It was something like a spider to her, only huge. Jacob looked on their frightened faces, time to take command.
Ryan took one hand and leant against the ancient oak, his fingertips gripping into the crevices that ran through the bark. His eyes came to rest on the pattern, chaotic like the cracks in parched summer earth. Under his boots the golden leaves were as noisy as the static in his head. Nothing was making sense anymore, not even trees. His life had had direction and meaning, all his work had been for Maya and their life together, their future. Now, if the policeman who stood watching him was right, she was gone. So there was no reason for the world to exist anymore. Why was it all still here? He willed the world to dissolve around him, just to melt away, yet he could still feel the unweeping rough bark and the chill breeze that refused to reflect the howling pain that tore through his body. Without warning he felt his insides become wooden and he turned to the officer with a face like a mannequin, "Thank you for informing me, you can go now."
The tree hunkered low to the windswept hill as if it wanted nothing more than to be sheltered by the tall grasses that waved golden in the late autumn wind. Its branches fanned out wide, separating from each other like the petals of a blossom only a metre or so from the ground. I think that's why we kids all loved it so much. We could climb it in just minutes and shimmy out along the rough limbs until we could see out over the surrounding fields. It was a secret hideout every kid in the village knew about, plus all the ex-kids, which was pretty much everyone. Even when the village council built a fancy playground it didn't get half as much use tree. It had no safety gravel and no tinny slide that seemed to grip jeans in damp weather. It was ours: adventurous, naughty and, best of all...secret.
Tom ran his hands over the silvery bark, feeling the blisters, the curling. It was like the paint that flaked from the side of his house, coming loose under the still soft skin of his hands. A few years in the mines would take care of that, a few years in the darkness breathing in black dust. He pushed harder, the bark cracked and fell confetti-like before being lost in the woodland litter. The tree was cold under his hand and above the boughs were already naked, swaying almost imperceptibly in the wintry breeze. Soon it would grow tight buds, then they would crack open to reveal the soft-pea green of new papery leaves. When that happened his life in the sunshine was over. Sixteen. The day he became a man. There really wasn't anything he wanted less.
To the ancient oak in the backyard her entire life so far had been like one sunny afternoon, passing quickly and soon forgotten along with all the other days that had no stand-out excitement or tragedy. At fifteen she was ready to explore the entire world, learn languages and new cultures. But with her back to the rough bark and several acorns poking into her jeans like beach pebbles she cast her eyes to the autumn sky. Her life in this place was coming to an end, she could feel it. But unlike this waning season she was heading into the summer of her life not the winter. She had her youth ahead of her, stretching out like an untrodden path into the mist, it's destination unknowable. Her eyes caught the chords of light that streamed through the already yellowed leaves. One day she would do the same under a Mango tree in the Caribbean, under a pine tree in Russian boreal forest, under the boughs of an olive grove in Italy.,,
Mrs Pollock is at the door again, wanting to know when I will chop down my nasty diseased tree. She is quite certain that it will infect her expensive plants next door. From the ferocity of her vent I know this isn't the first time she's had this conversation. Likely she's been telling her friends for a couple of weeks and finally has just the right combination of accumulated anger and tacit support to come to me. I listen without interruption until she's just glaring, hands on hips. I can almost see steam from those red cheeks. I turn to fetch a pen and paper, I want to write it down this time. In all caps I scrawl "corkscrew hazel, google it," and hand it over with a weak smile that hides my urge to hit her hard. That tree is the joy of my garden, it's twigs hang in ringlets like my daughter's hair did when she was young. In winter the denuded branches are artistic and carefree, turning in their random ways. I know her garden is all straight lines, but I need nature's chaos to relax.
The branches hang low with the weight of the snow, they are like my mother's arms when she returns from the green grocers, laden with winter squash and carrots. The green is still there under the brilliant white, contrasting perfectly in that "winter wonderland" sort of way. I'll need the snow shoes today, while the layer looks as solid as any forest floor I would sink right up to my knees or beyond. The sky is clear now, a perfect uninterrupted blue. It's odd to think that the grass is still down there, surviving as best it can until the spring melt, entombed in the compacted and icy layers lower down. After yesterday's storm the top layer is perfect powder, our coldest season doesn't get any better than this.
The ancient sycamore's trunk, rooted in gravel beside a brooding slough filled with treacherous sand bars, was five feet in diameter at the base. With only a slight taper, it rose for twenty-five feet to the first crotch.
the tree stood erect from the grass, its pink blossom blew away with a large gust of wind as graceful a dancing ballerina. The new leaves sparkled with the morning dew.
It was an odd looking vine. Dusty variegated leaves hunkered against a stem that wound in a stranglehold around the smooth trunk of a balsam fir. Sap drooled down the wounded bark, and dry limbs slumped, making it look as if the tree were trying to voice a moan into the cool, damp morning air.
The tree stood out rom the rest of the landscape, bathed in a bright angelic light. The sky, midnight blue, gave the scene a fairytale quality, and the stars that dotted the sky lit up the night. Everything was in awe of its beauty, even the rivers shushed in admiration.
The tree stood ghost-like, the silent observer of the snowy mountains, the river and the clouds. The only thing bigger than range of granite peaks was the midnight sky, dotted with silver and as vast as any eye could wander. Below stood a girl, made all the more tiny, her red dress flimsy in the wind.