Shade, and warmth. A tunnel of leaning trunks. Streaks of gold scattered: splashed, like spotlights, and verdant green stretches of fallen foliage lay nestled in the wood-paneled wings.
Roots spread interwoven and exposed: primordial tentacles creeping up to eyes, or sinking down into earthy depths.
As I walked, the light shone its streams onto particular trees, highlighting their purple-red, modulated bark: flaky in places; soft, yet sturdy.
Now stretching straight like a sign-post, now spiraling like a slanted spring, the boles varied infinitely. Cobwebs sparkled like fine-woven silk, and the new freshness of a green shoot waxed upwards in its infancy. The multitudinous number of the Yews, like custodians of their wood, struck me, but I felt no stranger. One of them, if not yet versed. I listened acutely – an intensity of energy surged – attuning to each as I passed. Embalmed, embraced in their aura.
Photo by Stanislav Komogorov