The woodland is still.

Its quiet tones shimmer

as bulbs push through the earth

and bluebells nod their heads,

glorying in soft breezes

gently passing by.

An aged tree lies where it has fallen,

helpless victim of a gale’s fury.

With head buried in decaying leaves

and roots facing the sky,

it remains immobile, neglected,

anchored in damp earth.

Above it, a youthful green canopy

dances and sings

heralding with joy the lighter nights and summer days.


All is still.

But wait…

There is movement –

a flowery skirt,

scarcely visible against this woodland’s luscious backdrop,

a tiny concentrated face,

arms balancing,

foot over foot.

foot over foot,

fingers tremble.

The forest holds its breath.

A squeal of joy,

a radiant smile,

victorious hands punch the air.

And the fallen tree

– ugly and barebasks

in the knowledge

that he,

of all the trees in the forest,

Is the chosen one

– a child’s delight.

Written by Sue Chalkley