A Forest

The forest was our playground, trees shutting out the sun for the most part , a hidden wild garden for feral children , a secret Eden far from home. 

 The trees grew on a hill side that was nt to steep to climb down or scrabble up. We would run along the lane screaming at the top of our lungs with glee as we ran the 200 steps or so from my auntie’s rear door to clearing which was the entrance to the Forrest populated with mighty oaks which would have been saplings at the birth of the first Queen Elizabeth 

 Rays of the sun illuminated the moss at the forest floor , where our feet were swallowed up to the ankles after heavy rain fall forcing us lumber along like Frankensteins monster in our mud covered wellies . 

As a kid I could jump from one side of the stream to the other with out much effort . It ran through the middle of the valley at the centre of the forest where the light broke though even on the dimest days. 

In the middle of winter when the sun went down early in the highlands giving the effect that the forest was mystic. In my imagination like a scene from a movie where Arthur happens across Excalibur removing it from the stone to provide his brother a sword. 

I have experienced this forest in every season as we eternally change it remains constant. As constant in reality as it is in my memory