The Forest

The wind tugs at my coat as I walk and sit on a lone oak tree stump on the plain green field overlooking the forest below. There are remnants of a garden there, bright and new plants begin to grow and bloom on the barren soil worked on by an old farmer. The diverse patch of plants rustle in the distance, once segregated in neat rows and files by the old farmer, they began to grow freely and without boundaries, becoming one of the other. However, I noticed some were cemented by the old flower beds, these conservatives grew alone in isolation too comfortable in their space and feared branching out. Those sort were few, some of these few stood tall and proud while others withered and died. Those that were planted together grew and intertwined, a rather unconventional sight. Plants and flowers of many distinctions melded together to make such a beautiful tapestry, new and radical in many ways this view was, but it in time it would come to be accepted and cherished. From the old battered soil that had been overworked and over used, weathered through forest fires, the elements and the test of time, birthed a new type of beauty, altered by man and nature, a thing of both but mastered by none.

I forced my eyes deeper into the forest and noticed the trees, great big oaks that stood proud, chest puffed out and branches long and high like big arms ready to hold the weight of the sky. These oaks stood in magnificence and seemed to be adored by the rest of the forest. They are the biggest and their leaves protect the smaller habitation from the harsh rays of the light. However their roots are greedy and great, they pore deep into the ground and exhaust its nutrients, if not for the abundant rain they would surely starve the smaller vegetation and still some do starve. The great defenders polarised as the nefarious thieves. It may be my own intent, my own aggrevation but if I were to be so bold as to suggest these oaks look almost boastful. They look down upon the rest of nature, and the rest of nature looks almost mislead. Some of the smaller plants look to force change, to become beautiful and boastful like the oaks whilst ignorant to their own beauty and presence. They forge to grow great big barks but fail to see the tests of time deeply engraved within the great trees, they notice not the tree stumps littered around them, the oaks cut down by their greatest admirers.

I grip my coat sleeves as the wind grows fiercer, pulling and pushing at all that grows. I fiddle on the oak tree stump and look one last time at the forest. The trees and plants branch out but the wind pushes them inward, as if the forest is trying to embrace the world yet forced back by nature itself. Deep inside it’s space is hollow, from once embracing the world and never mending the damage within.


In all honesty I had intended this piece of work for a writing competition but unfortunately neglected it. The topic of the competition was the “depth of nature” and while I was writing this I remembered a Naturalist writer I learnt about during my AS Literature studies, Robert Frost. His poems like “Birches” or “Road Not Taken” were always based in a nature themed context but their depth, their complexity would always have an element of the human condition. If not some sort of tribute for what I learnt in that year then at the least some sort of emulation.

Thank you.


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