The sky is as lovely as an illustration in a children’s picture book, pale blue with a big sun, yellow as a buttercup. There is a cobweb-faint breeze. We are approaching the copse, a group of creative writing students and I, a walk in the natural world, material for poetry. The air is alive with spring sounds: bees buzzing, birds singing, a gardener cutting the lawn near the halls of residence.
“To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing,” I quote Oscar Wilde. “What do you mean?” asks Grace. Liz, blue hair and nails, is quick to reply: “When we see, we stop and stare, absorbed.” And they do. Taking time to study the leaf-shaped profile of a brimstone butterfly, wings closed, resting on ivy. Alex points out swallows skimming the grass.
The path is like a finger painting of blossom and curled white feathers, Emme says. And the light falling through the branches is a kaleidoscope of colours. The others agree, making notes of what they see: a haze of bluebells, celandines, pine cones, a squirrel leaping through the branches of an oak tree, even a badger sett.
Standing on the bridge, a small group watch the brook tripping and tumbling over glittering black stones, shallow in some places, deeper in others. Then there is a high-pitched, sweet sound, and Callum is pointing towards a pine tree. They look up to see a tiny bird, smaller than a wren: bright-orange head crest flanked by a black edge, olive-green back, buff belly, darkish wings with white bars and a thin beak. Jamie, in a wheelchair, pulls up alongside them: “It’s a goldcrest.” Silently, deeply engrossed, they watch, absorbed in the moment. They take pictures on their smartphones, before moving on, searching for other things to see.
I breathe in the scent of fresh, green leaves and the heady odour of wild garlic. And I walk towards a scattering of wood anemones, their heads held high, petals stretched towards the light and warmth, thinking, I am looking forward to sharing the students’ poetry.
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