i was walking in the woods and was captivated by this. I’m always humbled in the presence of a tree like this – old, wise, scarred and full of memory and experience. I wish it could speak. But then I think it does. I just don’t know how to listen.
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.
He was slowly beginning to slip out of sight. His days in the sun had become memories and he found himself receding into a kind of obscurity. He’d become a grey ghost standing on the sidelines of life. It was not an easy place to be, yet he felt a certain sense of freedom and peace about it – nothing more to prove or to compete with.