Thoughts From A Walk In Belfairs Woods
These woods are not so grand as woods I’ve seen before, but for now, at least they will surely suffice.
Squirrels scuttle upside trees, this shorn trunk a seat for my fresh legs. My feet sink slightly into spongy near-mud. I think of my shoes which I must don later for work, adorned with my itinerary past and specks of mud, spattered up my shoelaces.
My coffee cup (bamboo of course, for the environment) teeters precariously on a rounded sign. I move it so as not to interfere with the four-feeted footpath of an over-friendly doggo. I pretend to be enamoured with my new canine friend, though could an animal pick up on social cues, it would have seen me avert my eyes, inspecting and immediately disregarding nailed down instructions on where to locate the nearest woodland trail.
I did not come here to write, merely to think, though as I balance my notebook every fourteen feet or so, so as my pen can scribble without interruption, I stand corrected. Another dog sniffs my coffee, which is cooling slightly, the hello of whose owner disrupting my train of thought. I feel a twinge of guilt as I have now situated myself on the only park bench in the area. An unexpected winter buzzing in my ear harks Relocation, Relocation, Relocation, as I vacate my bench, courtesy of Freddy Harrison, R.I.P. and thank him for “the best view I’ve ever seen.” (his words, not mine.)
Tire-tracks guide my feet as I avoid calls of “FORE” by the masculine equivalent of Ladies Who Lunch. I have decided that the weekday rascals shall hereby be known as Gentleman Who Golf. These are the same men, upon inspection, who shout “Get a real job” to the Extinction Rebellion protestors.
Freshly mown grass permeates my nostrils, surprising that part of me still hibernating. Spring feels as though it’s coming early this year, as if back by popular demand, like the daffodil buds trying their best to flower whilst in a vase in our living room. Impatient consumerism suggests nothing shall ever stay sacred, not daffodils, nor hot cross buns, not even the humble Creme Egg.
I’ve just realised that yes, the squirrels are scuttling, but it’s scarcely February. Aren’t they supposed to be hibernating? Do they too feel the premature call of summer? A quick Google on my phone renders that last thought ridiculous. The squirrels now are being terrorised by the big dogs. Is this normal? I consider this as I allow the sun to warm my face, the parts that aren’t swathed in a knitted scarf. It is cold, but warm if you look in the right direction.
I watch a line of dogs, so small they could only be puppies, follow their human mother like a line of chicks.
It is now my fourth day without work in the morning. The first two, my usual “weekend”, I spent in bed, resisting awakeness. The third, a rarity, I swept (nearly) all clutter from my neglected desk and sat at it, writing my diary for hours. And today, the fourth day not engaged, I’ve taken myself for a lonesome walk in the woods. It sounds to me as if work is a death sentence for creativity. Or at least, being a waitress, though fun, and fine, is not conducive to a creative mindset. Not for me, anyway. Repetitive japes with familiar faces ain’t all that amusing, after the first few occasions.
How apt, my pen barrel is down to its last dregs. The sky is a refreshing blue, framed by wiry winter branches. They stand not as high as trees I’ve sheltered under in a seemingly past life. These woods are not so grand as woods I’ve seen before, but for now, at least they will surely suffice.
Squirrels scuttle upside trees, this shorn trunk a seat for my fresh legs. My feet sink slightly into spongy near-mud. I think of my shoes which I must don later for work, adorned with my itinerary past and specks of mud, spattered up my shoelaces.
My coffee cup (bamboo of course, for the environment) teeters precariously on a rounded sign. I move it so as not to interfere with the four-feeted footpath of an over-friendly doggo. I pretend to be enamoured with my new canine friend, though could an animal pick up on social cues, it would have seen me avert my eyes, inspecting and immediately disregarding nailed down instructions on where to locate the nearest woodland trail.
I did not come here to write, merely to think, though as I balance my notebook every fourteen feet or so, so as my pen can scribble without interruption, I stand corrected. Another dog sniffs my coffee, which is cooling slightly, the hello of whose owner disrupting my train of thought. I feel a twinge of guilt as I have now situated myself on the only park bench in the area. An unexpected winter buzzing in my ear harks Relocation, Relocation, Relocation, as I vacate my bench, courtesy of Freddy Harrison, R.I.P. and thank him for “the best view I’ve ever seen.” (his words, not mine.)
Tire-tracks guide my feet as I avoid calls of “FORE” by the masculine equivalent of Ladies Who Lunch. I have decided that the weekday rascals shall hereby be known as Gentleman Who Golf. These are the same men, upon inspection, who shout “Get a real job” to the Extinction Rebellion protestors.
Freshly mown grass permeates my nostrils, surprising that part of me still hibernating. Spring feels as though it’s coming early this year, as if back by popular demand, like the daffodil buds trying their best to flower whilst in a vase in our living room. Impatient consumerism suggests nothing shall ever stay sacred, not daffodils, nor hot cross buns, not even the humble Creme Egg.
I’ve just realised that yes, the squirrels are scuttling, but it’s scarcely February. Aren’t they supposed to be hibernating? Do they too feel the premature call of summer? A quick Google on my phone renders that last thought ridiculous. The squirrels now are being terrorised by the big dogs. Is this normal? I consider this as I allow the sun to warm my face, the parts that aren’t swathed in a knitted scarf. It is cold, but warm if you look in the right direction.
I watch a line of dogs, so small they could only be puppies, follow their human mother like a line of chicks.
It is now my fourth day without work in the morning. The first two, my usual “weekend”, I spent in bed, resisting awakeness. The third, a rarity, I swept (nearly) all clutter from my neglected desk and sat at it, writing my diary for hours. And today, the fourth day not engaged, I’ve taken myself for a lonesome walk in the woods. It sounds to me as if work is a death sentence for creativity. Or at least, being a waitress, though fun, and fine, is not conducive to a creative mindset. Not for me, anyway. Repetitive japes with familiar faces ain’t all that amusing, after the first few occasions.
How apt, my pen barrel is down to its last dregs. The sky is a refreshing blue, framed by wiry winter branches. They stand not as high as trees I’ve sheltered under in a seemingly past life. These woods are not so grand as woods I’ve seen before, but for now, at least they will surely suffice.
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