Saplings on the edge

I’m standing. Still. Breathing sharp cold air. Listening to the wind. The wood is talking. Phrases on the air. The birds are singing in the winter branches. They are noisy, squabbling, jumping hedgerows. Frost still crackles under my feet on dried and icy leaves. The saplings on the edge of the path leading out of the woodland take my attention. Quietly going about their business of growing, unaware. The evening light breaks as I emerge out of the woodland. White and pale winter light, stretching across the sky. Magenta shadows thrown across the hills.

It’s hard to imagine, standing in this old peaceful woodland, that parts of it maybe demolished for the widening of a major road. There are three proposed routes; and each one goes through this ancient wood.