Woods - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The woodland seemed ominously quiet. They paused, now that even the sound of their own footfalls was silent, all that could be heard was the susurration of the leaves in the gusty wind. Looking up, they were transfixed by the myriad of fluttering leaves that danced in the high boughs, making a living roof above them. They were calmed, almost hypnotised, but the longer they stared the more the leaves looked like eyes staring back down at them and the boughs seemed to draw closer, blocking the sunlight as if they were forming a cage around them.
The old, yellow and brown leaves hustled in the wind, as the sounds of dead, weak trees, creak at every push the wind gave. It's the end of fall and the air is colder than an ice cube, as it climbs through my jacket to the bottom of my spine. Most of the leaves are already gone. And the sight of every living thing coming to an end, depresses me. The crumpling of the brown stiff leaves creates a home to many animals that need a place to hid during this time of empty sorrow. The birds have ceased to sing no more and I must take this time to enjoy whatever is left here in the woods. It has always been my best friend, even ever since I climbed up my first tree in fourth grade. It has been my rock and foundation of my life ever since I lost my loving mother.
The woods accelerated the twilight, shrinking what would normally take an hour into just a few minutes. When Tessa entered on the rutted path, carefully avoiding the hoof-sized frozen pools, the light had faded so little she didn't even notice the difference. It wasn't a long trek, it was muddier for sure but it would get her home twenty minutes earlier. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the encroaching gloom and it wasn't for ten minutes that she realized the sun wasn't penetrating the leaves like it usually does and everything was a hue darker than it should be. She picked up her pace but in only five more minutes it was undeniably dark, she could no longer avoid the ruts and her ankle twisted painfully when she made a mis-step. The trees had become silhouettes, the air was colder and the gaiety of the woodland had been replaced with a sense of isolation. Her heart pounded in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion of walking. Soon the path and her own feet melted into blackness...
The pickup lurched as it turned onto a dirt road. Overhead, the woods closed in, shutting out the moonlight.
The dappled shade of the woodland trees had seemed so inviting only moments earlier. Sarah had walked holding Tommy's hand pointing out the pale bark of the Silver Birch and the tight black buds of the Ash. They had pretended to be steam trains and puffed along, their white "smoke" rising amid the cool late winter air. They had stomped in the stream, clouding it with silt and then constructed a dam of twig, rock and leaf litter. But she had wandered into the trees to collect some pretty holly for an art display and told him to wait right there on the path, to listen to the birds and draw in the mud with a stick. On her return all she found was a dappled path, a muddy stick and a mitten. She had called softly for him at first as if it were a game of hide 'n' seek, in less than a minute her anguished cries brought nearby walkers rushing toward her. A gent in a cloth cap pulled out his phone and called for police. Sarah stood aghast, not knowing in which direction to run.
Neala looked into the trees. Except for a few shreds of moonlight, the woods were as dark as a shut closet.
We turned aside, and climbed the hill through the woods. Velvety green sprigs of dog-mercury were scattered on the red soil. We came to the top of a slope, where the wood thinned...There was a deep little dell, sharp sloping like a cup, and a white sprinkling of flowers all the way down, with white flowers showing pale among the first inpouring of shadow at the bottom.
The woods were silent.
The woods were hot and still. Not a breeze stirred.
Smell of damp leaves, splash of water from stream, cascades over tiny waterfalls, fungus on rotting tree stumps, rustle of roosting birds, wind stirs trees, twigs snapping, curious sounds, eerie noises, owl hoot, hush, whispering trees, ferns like green fountains, crunch of dried bracken underfoot, woodland clearing with purple spikes of Fireweed.
As I approached the forest, I wrapped my cerise colored coat around my neck, took a huge breath and set off. I could feel the silky smooth leaves brushing against my arms and hear the melodious chirping of the birds as I pranced ahead. I lifted her head and let the rays of warm, amber sunlight dance across my face. I could see small patches of the clear blue sky peering in through trees as tall as skyscrapers. I picked a small red berry from a bush and popped it into my mouth. I could immediately feel its sweet and tangy taste. The tranquil atmosphere in the forest had instantly vanished as I heard crunching footsteps on the leaves.
The falling leaves flutter down, sparse in the cool mid-autumn air. In other places perhaps they are a feast of colours - enough to feed the soul as well as they eyes. I've read about leaves like that, I've imagined them like a garish quilt over the ground. Perhaps if I saw them I'd be poetical too, but these leaves are all brown. The only difference between now and winter is the crunch underfoot and soon even that will be dampened by the rains.
The leaves scud over the ground and take small flights into the air. As I toss my head back and raise my eyes to the sky a smile spreads from freckled cheek to cheek. The branches sway like the arms of a soccer crowd and it their chaotic dance they are hypnotically beautiful. My mind relaxes and I feel the happiness of my life bubble up from within. The light I keep inside begins to escape from my pores. Were it not for the passers by I would spin like a little girl again, arms out wide and fingers spread, but instead I keep my hands in my pockets and inhale deeply. This wind carries the fragrance of the woodland, the essence of my childhood days...