Old Forest

Grey columns of oak and lime rise far overhead, trunks so broad that a fallen one makes a wall at chest height. Pale gold light slants between them at dawn. Deadwood lies wherever it fell, deep in moss, with shelf fungus stepping up the rotting bark. In one place a storm has thrown down a whole stand, and the upturned root plates tower higher than a cottage, packed with earth and stones. At the centre stands the great lime, enormous and hollow, its split trunk open like a doorway. A plain wooden post beside it marks a boundary. To the east the trees part around a grassy glade where mist lies thick at this hour. A pale salt lick sits at its middle, and a raised wooden stand on stilts waits at its edge. Ferns grow knee-deep. Northward, a faint path leaves the glade and fades with every step into the trees. Everything smells of moss and slow rot.