Winter. January, 2018
Kingley Vale, West Sussex
Kingley Vale is an ancient grove of yew trees on the South Downs, some of which are over 500 years old. Yews have stood on the site for over 1500 years. The grove is known for ghost sightings and as a former meeting place for druids and witches.
The rain blows in soft columns across the burnt yellow fields. Trapped by the tree line, the wind whips each column back round to circulate once more. The treetops wave in and out of the mist, shaken by the wind. The path, newly coated in a thick mud, slips and slides underfoot. Calling into the wind a blackbird, soft brown against the dark wet of the hedgerow. Scruffy molehills line the banks, tops peppered with shards of white chalk. As the path enters the forest the chat and chuckle of the fieldfare fills the sheltered silence.
The noise of the wind dies,
Caught in the sudden stillness a
Pair of roe deer pad through a clearing.
A flash of colour, weaving in small glimpses
Through the tangle of foliage.
Turn away from the path and into the ancient yew grove. Leading into the dark a parting between strands of branches that plunge into the earth below and race skyward above. Each yew, bulbed at the middle, stands as an island on the bare forest floor. Long branches reach out, straining to touch their neighbours. The rain falls in fat drops, dripping from fine soft needles to the ground below. The grey underside of the leaves casts a monochromatic glow to the dim light of the grove.
Every tree and branch has formed in a unique way. Below the drooping canopy, branches emerge at sudden right angles from fat trunks. They shoot straight out before twisting and knotting around each other. Some make for the forest floor, burying themselves before emerging, worm like some feet away. Others turn and reach upwards, seeking support. They push and pull each other toward the light. Curves are as common as broken elbows and protruding shards of snapped limbs.
A fallen branch lies below its sharply shorn stump.
It twists through the mud before
A head, shaped like a sea serpent
Raises itself above a pool of water.
The wind rushes through the canopy, an unexpected shout in the grove. It shakes down a fine rain to swirl and settle. The water runs through the deep grooves of the yew bark. As the wind parts the leaves, the light catches in the channels, exposing shining silver rivers. Walking on through the dark, new shapes appear.
Two branches raise themselves from a slender trunk
They spread toward a clearing like the
Giant antlers of a great stag.
On trunks, mouths open and dark eyes peer. Picked out in brown and grey oils the swirling lines of the head and beak of an ancient bird, calling out from a broken limb. At the edge of the grove a yew leans on the verge of collapse. Its twisted branches reach and push toward the earth like an old woman trying to raise herself.
At the edge of the forest the columns of rain still swirl through the valley. A flock of rooks, blown by the wind, turn and wheel into the mist.