Harry the hedgehog and Sammy the Snail, lived together, in harmony, in the garden of a cottage called THE LAST TRAIL.

The owners of the cottage were indeed very nice. They were always putting out food for squirrels, hedgehogs’, snails and of course mice.

By day Sammy would pull his head inside his shell, which Sammy found kept him warm, very well.
Harry would pull his body in tight, making himself into a small ball.  

Together Harry and Sammy would wait for night time to fall.
They would stay this way all through the day. Hidden and safe, with nothing to say.

When night time came, Harry would extend his body and shuffle his feet, wriggle his nose and walk down the path to his own rhythm and beat.

Sammy the snail would pop out his head and slide and glide along the garden path, swerving from side to side.

Together they would make their way to the vegetable bed where the owners of the cottage left some milk and soggy bread.

‘Yuk!’ thought Sammy, in his mind the owners, they weren’t being very kind.

Harry though he would stay and devour the meal while Sammy made his way to something that held better appeal.

Whilst Harry took his time consuming the soggy bread and milk. Sammy’s food choice was of another ilk.

Sammy made his way to the cabbages where he used his thousands of tiny teeth to strip the goodness from the leaves.

Bellies full Harry the Hedgehog and Sammy the snail made their way back home, leaving behind them a silvery trail.

They settled for the rest of the night, happy in each others company, waiting for tomorrow’s twilight.

When they would wake again and make their way to the vegetable bed to fill their tummies before returning to their own safe beds.

Here I stand on public display.
In my choice of home,
I have no say!
Wherever my roots travel,
That’s where I lay.

One hundred springs, summers, autumns, and winters — I have survived.
I stand with pride, thankful to be alive.
Filtering pollution and
breathing life into the air is my gift to you.
Keeping the skies a perfect blue.

Birds wake me with their tuneful song. In a chorus, they happily cheep and chirp. A joyful, uplifting start to the day.
They soar, glide, and fly gracefully above my head.
As they search for food to feed their young. Seeking earthworms and even crumbs of bread.
Their wind from their wings cause my leaves to rustle, sending a delightful shiver throughout my spine. A spiritual feeling that is hard to define.
I make myself taller, sending my branches upwards, towards the skies. It is my way of saying thank you to the pigeons, gulls, ravens, and magpies.

I have witnessed many natural disasters over the years,
Floods and fires are the cause of many tears.
Homes that are washed clearly away, cars that are tossed like a feather so light.
The waters gather in vast quantities, rolling through towns and villages at great speed and with great might.
Leaving devastation behind in their wake.

The most worrying for me, though,
Is of course, a fire out of control.
It scorches my bark and burns my soul.
I feel the heat as it flickers and leaps up my trunk.
My bark is blackened, pieces fall to the floor,
In charred chunks.
Sap seeps out of me, bleeding into the soil.
The moss and lichen nearby will at least feed on my oil.

By day, people lay blankets at my feet.
Laying before me their wholesome treats.
Pies, sandwiches, jars of pickles, and slices of meat.
Samosas, wraps, hummus, fruit, and veggie sticks. A smorgasbord of treats.
During times like this, I dream of having a mouth to consume and savour food. It brings joy and laughter, lightening the mood.

Many celebrations of life have been toasted under the shade of my leaves.
My world has hosted whole families struggling to grieve.
On display, cakes of many tastes and sizes
celebrating ages from low to high numbers.
Are all consumed at the base of my lumber.

This year. I am pleased to say, has been uneventful.
And for that, I am truly thankful.

As autumn turns into winter,
I shed my leaves.
Humans retreat to the warmth of their homes.
I stand here, mostly alone.
Waiting for spring to burst its way through the cold. Bringing with it colour and warmth and,
most importantly,
Bringing you back outdoors to spend your days with me.
This is the life of an ancient deciduous tree.

Sat on the grass surrounding an old, weathered church.
My focus is on a buzzard, sitting on its perch.
He is as still as a rock; his poise gives nothing away.
His keen eyes have already noticed I am here today.
Though others kneel with heads bowed in devotion.
My spirit soars with birds of prey in slow motion.

As the day segues into night.
Darkness arrives, bathing the churchyard in a warm, ethereal light.
The moon appears, swapping places with the sun.
The transition to evening has just begun.

People have left, gone home for the night.
I sit alone, contemplating the twilight.
My eyes are on the birds of prey.
As they also contemplate the end of the day.

Finding peace amongst the gravestones, my mind wanders free.
I conclude birds have the ultimate liberty.
They are free to move from perch to perch.
Perhaps settle by a river in an oak or birch.

Today, their choice is an old building,
settled amid their grotesque gargoyles.
With nests made of leaves, feathers, and soil.

In the yard at night, two beings sit, showing mutual regard.
Both perched on solid ledges, which are uncomfortably hard.
One with security for its family, in front of mind.
The other one is of humankind.

These large birds leave their nest but rarely.
When they do, it is a treat to see.
Extending their wings to their fullest extent.
The world close by is theirs to circumvent.

As they glide and soar through the air, effortlessly
They are creatures who are truly free.
Cutting through the skies with elegance and grace.
They are the commanders of the vast blue space.
Spotting their prey, they hover and then quickly swoop.
Into their mouths, voles, mice, and earthworms, they scoop.

In nooks and crannies, on their ancient ledge.
They survey the world from the very edge.
Finding peace and tranquillity amongst the old.
Weathering the seasons through hot and cold.
Whilst I go home to a snug, soft bed.
A duvet and soft pillow to lay my head.

The air bites crisp this early part of the day.
Workers wrap up warm as they set out on their way.
As cyclists and joggers set the pace.
The sun has yet to grace us with its golden face.

My husband and I,
accompanied by two energetic grandchildren, whose boundless energy I envy.
Make our way to the large green fields, the children playing in a frenzy.

Here gulls, ducks and swans,
meet at the water’s edge.
Their squawks and calls,
loud and pleading to be fed.

First, the boys take the chance to play football between the rugby posts.
Their enthusiasm is to be the one that scores the most.
With grandad as the referee,
they tackle and run, laughing and shouting, that’s number “3!”

As I sit and observe from a bench, dogs run playfully and bark.
Sunday morning and families are making their way to the play park.

Families as large as four or five, walking, talking, laughing, toddlers ahead, racing on bikes and scooters.

Suddenly!
A long misguided
kick from one of our penalty shooters.

“Oh, no!”
The ball lands with a splash in the middle of the river.
Causing the water to ripple and shiver.

How will grandad get it back?
He walks
keenly following its track.

Luck is with us!
The wind changes course and blows the ball to the side.
Grandad bends and retrieves it for his boys with patience and great pride.

In the distance, trains chuff, chuff and toot, toot,
as they cross over the bridge.
I wonder where their start point was,
Scotland, London or maybe Cambridge?

Before we have reached our destination, the sun has broken through the clouds,
and the day warms.
People have increased in their numbers,
like bees multiplying in swarms.

Everyone is glad the sun has come out to play.
Jackets come off, sun cream goes on and families continue on their way.
It’s a perfectly leisurely and wonderful day.