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.