Scarisdale Wood

Jason // August 3 // 0 Comments

The air thickened around me, syrupy with Midges and the drift of fern exhale.

Millennial memories grew from the lichen gowned limbs, giving heft to the place.

Scarisdale Wood.

Pools of living water gasped their Indignation as I stumbled through, unchaining streams of scents - rot, sour, moulder, decay.

Stunted by wind and rock-bound roots, the Oaks and Birches squat tight to the sopping sod, crawling with adagio overtones through the limpid island air.

At night they wake, in my dreams at least, to wave a renewed chant of leaf and bark.

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About the Author Jason

Jason follows his lifelong vocation as a countryside photographer who tries to catch the spirit of the places he visits. After decades working as a professional editorial photographer he now focuses much of his time on conceptual fine art photography, visual storytelling and in aiding others to follow their creative calling.