A breeze scuttles through the jostling limbs of the coppiced chestnuts, and they clatter like masts in a marina.
In my imagination, when the hill is stripped bare, these trees will be crafted into green-winged ships, thrusting proudly towards the broad horizon.
In reality, I know they’ll become fence posts.
Tamsin keeps finding herself writing about trees – but then, literally, we can’t live without them.
Aren’t we all in the same boat? Nicely told!
Or maybe the same ship :) Very good point, though, I hadn’t thought of it like that!
Nice! I really like the phrase, ‘…and they clatter like masts in a marina’. They do don’t they …slap, slap, slap!
Thank so much Christian! They definitely do – really glad someone else thinks so too!