It might seem like the end; like some kind of hollow closure or resolution. But it isn’t; it’s just the transition to a new kind of being…
Warburton
017.
Beyond the entrance, the forest was organised into neat rows, line upon line of straight trunks. We moved lazily between them, circling back around. Funny how I always find myself circling back to the forest…
014.
The entrance to the forest is small, just a slim gap between two trees, projecting only darkness and a smell of damp leaves. We squeeze through, and inside the space draws out in all directions; we are tiny. We walk the rows, weaving between trees like cathedral columns. This seems fitting; there is a sense of ceremony here, of timelessness, of being in a place of presence, calm, and resilience…
012.
A quiet, dark afternoon among the trees. We listen to muffled footsteps all around, see shadows moving between the tall trunks. A figure emerges, moves towards the light. We turn, watch it leave, and breathe a little more easily…
Timothy Moss 