As I stood on the fringe of the woodlandscapes, I used to be struck by the kaleidoscope of colours that unfolded earlier than me like an artist’s canvas. The grey trunks of historic timber rose majestically in the direction of the sky, their gnarled branches twisted into unattainable shapes by the whims of time and climate. Amidst them stood sentinels of blackest bark, their darkish silhouettes stark in opposition to the colourful tapestry of nature’s palette. But, amidst this somber backdrop, bursts of brown earthiness erupted forth, as if the land itself was alive and pulsating with power. After which, after all, there have been the inexperienced shoots – tender, delicate, and filled with promise – pushing their means upwards in the direction of the sun-drenched cover above. It was as if the very essence of life itself was being distilled into this verdant panorama, infusing each molecule of air with its very important pressure. However even amidst such lushness, flashes of white – wispy clouds, maybe, or flecks of quartz embedded in historic stone – served as poignant reminders of nature’s infinite subtlety and nuance. And past all this, towering above the treetops like giants, stood the blue mountains – sentinels of stone and earth that appeared to carry the secrets and techniques of eons inside their historic hearts. It was a panorama without delay each intimate and epic, talking to one thing deep inside my soul; a testomony to the boundless magnificence and thriller that lay simply past our doorstep, ready to be found anew with each passing day.
