As I stood on the fringe of the woodlandscapes, I used to be struck by the kaleidoscope of colours that danced earlier than my eyes. The grey trunks of historical bushes rose like sentinels from the earth, their gnarled branches stretching in the direction of the sky like nature’s personal cathedral. The black silhouettes of pine bushes stood like darkish guardians, their needles rustling softly within the mild breeze. Amidst this somber backdrop, bursts of brown leaves exploded from the branches, as if autumn itself had come alive. And but, amidst this riotous show, there have been flashes of inexperienced – emerald canopies that shimmered like jewels within the dappled mild filtering by way of the cover above. White birch bushes stood like ghostly apparitions, their papery bark glowing softly within the fading mild of day. Nevertheless it was the mountains within the distance that actually stole my breath – their rugged blue peaks rising like giants from the earth, as if they’d been sculpted by some divine hand. The air was alive with the scent of wooden smoke and damp earth, as if the forest itself was exhaling a sigh of contentment after a protracted day’s slumber. As I wandered deeper into these woodlandscapes, I felt my very own spirit stirring, as if I too have been awakening from a protracted winter’s nap – able to drink in all the sweetness that this magical place needed to provide.
