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Author / Jon Woolcott
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Ice Works by Martin Hesp
Snow meant: you do what you want, while nothing else moves and nothing else is happening. This is your white world.
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On Entering the Wrong Carriage by Rachel J Fenton
Only I am taking things slow, of course; nature is busy. The pear tree that two weeks ago resembled me bowed by the weekly grocery shop now has its branches empty.
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Happy the Man by Gareth Evans
Happy the man who hears no birds above the clamour of his false words
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Birds of Firle by Tanya Shadrick
Twenty-one rooks printed and stuck into that fifty-pence notebook. To be offered in turn to anyone, anywhere, who would write back with their thoughts.
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Placing the Mark, Marking the Place by B. G. Nichols
Over time, I began to transfer my little votives from one place to another, creating invisible filaments, lines of organic energy that connected me to a place.
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A Rewilding Diary by Emily Warner
My work in Glen Affric has also been a tale of collaboration: friends, field-assistants and family giving themselves wholly to my fieldwork for chunks of time.
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The Emboughered by Dickie Straker
Last night, I rambled through memory paths, leaf litter, the sounds of dawn and dusk and the spicy aroma of autumn, of carp slime, beech mast and silt.
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TREE: Living Near Woods by Gill Horitz
When words were no longer on the tip of my mother’s tongue one of the first to go was ‘tree’.
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TREE: Sometimes a Moon by Jane Routh
The summer view of the hills is filtered through its green leaflets, just beginning to yellow as I write this at the beginning of October.
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TREE: Life Cycle by Ruth Bradshaw
The amorphous, anonymous mass of tangled greenery that I have too often ignored on previous visits to the woods begins to take on a new significance.
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Walking with the moors by Ella Taylor
I wade into the unknown water, cautious not to make any sudden movements.
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How to Paint a Ditch by Hugh Dunford Wood
We all pass through, for a Holloway is not quite of this world.
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