A place of refuge, close to the sprawling city, a reminder of what once was (and could be again). The spirit of something ancient rests here. Woven in the trunks, the gnarly beeches with misshapen faces. A surprise eye follows the rustling crackle, years of beech nuts compacting underfoot. I hide under the canopy of low trailing holly bush to escape the rain. The forest speaks in whispers, I come for communion.