the tilted tree

Gritty sand stuck to our skin like paper. Carrying large stripey blankets and clips for the ends, we climbed through its old rakish frozen wood, till we reached a wide enough branch to flare out the blankets and hold them wide like a house. A picnic under those sprawling branches, like ‘music made solid’ ( from Fire and Hemlock, by Diana Wynne Jones) with cut apples and bits of bread were all that the 7 -year-old’s that we were managed to get from our houses and kitchens on the spur of the moment with no parental help, but they became grand burgers and cakes from pictures, so it was okay. A plan, elaborate and finely detailed of the tree house we’d build, appeared slowly in the sand, on the end of short twigs that carefully scratched and broke and didn’t dig deep enough lines in the sand for any of the plans to be clear. We all climbed and climbed, every tree in the court, until we were self made masters- except they were always better at this than us, climbing up and up all the trees that were climbable. Unlike the stories, we never did make this tree house. We probably weren’t allowed, and then we probably didn’t know how.tree

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About theshadowsofthenight

An amateur writer and amateur artist :)
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