Thomas Hardy walked here. Do some of these trees remember him? Did this ground feel the touch of the soles of his shoes, and did the stones hear his literary and poetic whisperings as he conjured up stories and poems? Do the leaves in their cyclical existence of life and death carry within themselves memories of his face in moments of creative struggle and insight? Thomas Hardy walked here and the Woods still remember.
Yesterday’s walk through the woods.
The room small and tight; its contents so familiar they no longer speak. Outside, the distance waits with outstretched arms and enticing whispers. It’s hard to say goodbye.