The forest is only waiting for their signal to start trembling, hissing, and roaring from its depths
Céline
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Deadman’s Point
Black Grounds
Northern Corner
Foulness Point
Clark’s Hard
Blackedge Point
Crow Stone
Haven Point
Pig’s Bay
Havengore Head
Crouch Corner
Black Point"slinking
the tidal susurrus beckons
radial traceries subside
in dusks dim glow
a lace recital
silt hoard
alluvium echoes
below,
encrusted murmurs
laminated in the murk
waiting"
Dickinson
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"Somewhere in the hollows and spaces between our carefully managed wilderness areas and the creeping, flattening effects of global capitalism, there are still places where an overlooked England truly exists; places where ruderal shrub plants, familiar here since the last ice sheets retreated, have found a way to live with each successive wave of new arrivals; places where the city’s dirty secrets are laid bare and successive human utilities scar the earth or stand cheek by jowl with one another; complicated, unexamined places that thrive on disregard."
Farley & Roberts
Memories have huge staying power, but like dreams, they thrive in the dark, surviving for decades in the deep waters of our minds like shipwrecks on the sea bed.
Ballard
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“This fusion of wood and water is an entrancing thing. Without the wood the stream would be nothing: a mere thin watercourse winding through its flat meadows. Without the water the wood, on its slope and with its air of quietness and mystery and of being a world within itself, could not help being a constantly delightful thing. But water and wood, together, shading and watering and bounding each other, each give to the other something which the other does not possess, the wood giving to the stream something solid and shadowy and immemorial, the stream giving to the wood all the incomparable movement and twinkling transcience of moving water, the tree shadows standing deep in the stream, the reflection of sunlight flickering a kind of waterlight up into the shadowy branches of pine and alder. The wood and the water are here, in fact, one, for each other and with each other. It is a fusion that is almost perfect.”
Bates
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“These woods are where silence has come to lick its wounds.”
Hunt
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In the cragged pool
The river-smithy
Goes on labouring all night.
River-goblins
Toil the bellows, in the underglow.
Sledge-hammers of big water, rock anvils
Pound in the den of glooms.
With fling of glare metals and shadow-struggle.
Under the corrugated roof
Bulging and flashing mares
Slam down their heels, and are held.
Electrical stallions
Surge and, with oaths, are quieted.
Ted Hughes
Each is another and no other:
crossing and vanishing
through their empty names:
water, stone, wind.
Paz
