The Spinney

A mile or so from my grandparents house lies a Spinney: 
A small wood or copse
Solitary it stands upon the village green

I remember from my youth that often larks would serenade this encapsulated thicket;
Darting throughout the dense bushels as needles through silk
Thorn-bearing gooseberries dressed the opening; 
Coupled with the twisted trunk of an ancient elm, billowing skywards and out of view

Paths seemed to appear and vanish upon each visit, leading me wayward
The unpredictable wilderness a reflection of my unbridled youth
Small notches in trees found themselves as homes for small mice and bugs
Each level of the forest a Shangri-La for those who inhabited its structures

The Spinney breathed life into every corner of its realm
It was a home, a playground, a sanctuary
It’s omnipotent nature demanded respect but eluded endless tenderness
Brash and bold it stood, a living force

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