Tag: writing

Mia is the in-house monitor for season changes. From sun worshipper during the heatwave, to couch potato, taking to her red blanket when Autumn arrives.

After a summer of family grief and the upheaval that comes with it, summer passed in the blink of an eye or a hazy wave, dependent on the moment. So before all the leaves have disappeared from the trees, I thought I’d revisit a recent outing to a local reserve, lovely Dunsford.

 

 

We’re so grateful to Devon Wildlife Trust for maintaining these pockets of nature, an outing so magical it inspired a poem:

Dunsford; by Susie Williamson 

Walk with me,

You who feels troubles plenty,

Weighed with thoughts of disconnection,

Bring your heavy steps,

Across the swathes of Clifford Bridge,

Spy the magic from afar,

Allow your mind, your thoughts and all that you are,

To embrace,

Open your heart to the wonders abound,

Dunsford Reverse, nature’s ground,

Where coppices grow, regrow, recycle, renew refresh,

Tune your senses to the cool, crisp clarity of nature’s drug,

Eyes wide to the magic like a heady rush,

In this place of vivid tones,

And transient joy through valley slopes,

Cast your eye,

Over crystal clear waters of the River Teign,

With a rushing flow felt deep within,

Your cells alive with the sounds of a watery dance,

Spy the slender pickings of a native dipper,

The distant tap of a kingfisher,

And in a moment your heart skips a beat,

To hear an otter’s indomitable squeak,

You pause,

Beneath the arched boughs of a sycamore tree,

A place of nature’s unity,

Leaves touch glassy water with the lightest kiss,

While tumbled-down steeples of jagged rocks,

Cloudy crystal granite shards defend the shores,

Watched by passing deer from slopes up high,

Through dappling fronds their furtive spy,

Grants a wish,

For those who look beyond the pale,

To where sun and moon cast dreamlike rays,

Too soon for springtime daffodils,

But climb woodland heights for magicked sights,

And long-tailed tits like dragonflies,

Acorns beneath giant ferns like trees,

Half-eaten in this woodland sanctity

Passersby,

Feel the brush of air from a tawnies wing,

The distant sound of a goosander’s song,

Climb through hazel, oak and hawthorn,

Barbs to give a friendly scratch,

While reaching heady woodland heights,

Breathe the view of this vast valley,

Home to bracken slopes and fallow deer,

And know, our connective tissue.