Here’s the story that my Granddaughter Blythe wrote for the Write Here, Write Now national competition in Ireland. She went to Dublin for the prizegiving and was introduced the Dublin author Roddy Doyle. Photo courtesy of Phil Coleman.
School:Coláiste Bhaile Chláir
About:Born in Boston, Blythe enjoys listening to music, and swimming. Devoted to reading and writing, her subjects of choice are English and Science. She has one younger 10-yearold sister and can’t really name her one favourite book. At a push, however, she would pick Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier.
It is a warm spring morning, and I have already spent a few hours slipping between the huge wooden pillars of the forest.
All around me are trees, impossibly tall and slender, their branches reaching out towards each other and creating a leafy canopy above my head. Shafts of golden sunlight stream down to the forest floor, strewn with sweet-smelling pine needles and land between the pools of cool shade. The light is never still, never constant. A pearly mist floats among the trees, filtering the bright sunlight to a pearly sheen. There are no people, no cars, nothing to hint that a world outside this exists at all. Just the sweet, clear trill of a bird that circles the forest, and the gurgling of a little stream.
It seems, for now, that time itself has stopped. That this place is a tirmeless haven in the midst of an infinite universe of swirling noise and bustle. I shrug off my worries as if they are a heavy backpack, and just breathe in the fresh, cool air, carrying the faint, resinous scent of the conifers all around me.
I can feel the springy moss beneath my feet, slightly dampened by tiny droplets of dew. The sky is breathtakingly beautiful, though I can only see gaps of pure azure, flecked with tiny wisps of clouds through the trees. Wildflowers nod their heads in the gentle breeze, their silky petals ranging in colour from delicate cream to a sweet heliotrope.
As evening begins to creep over the forest, the patches of the sky fade gradually from pure blue to a vast expanse of dusky purples and pinks. The light twinkles to a soft, lemon-yellow brilliance, and the bars of sun thin out, dappling the trees more sparsely. The sun, a glittering orb floating above the forest, sinks slowly downwards towards the horizon. The petals of the flowers curl up towards each other until they are completely closed in a little teardrop shape.
The sky is now a deep, rich blue, like a soft blanket draped over the previously bright, lightness. The first brave stars begin to twinkle, just pale dots that are so far away. Sleepy birdsong and the lulling chorus of the cicadas echo through the trees.
The sky grows darker into deeper shades of night. The moon casts with pearly light over the forest, and my path is only barely illuminated. The trees are now just black silhouettes, and the animals have ceased their music. It’s as if everything has gone to sleep.