Nature Calling: Absorb and Respond; A call out for new perspectives of nature from writers and artists who don’t normally work with or in nature. Artists were asked to create a piece of work in response to the landscape and to involve young people. The newly formed Isle of Wight National Landscape youth committee selected the successful writer, awarded £2,000 and filmmaker awarded £3,000 to create a response to a location within the landscape.
Writer Kathryn Rossati chose to write a poetry collection, inspired by Bouldnor Forest within the Hamstead Heritage Coast. The youth committee took part in a poetry walk at Bouldnor Forest and feature in the final work, a film journey through the forest. Reuben Mowle created a series of poetry films, taking viewers on a journey of nature connection.
The first film can be viewed on the Isle of Wight National Landscape YouTube Channel – Isle of Wight National Landscape – YouTube.
Exploring Bouldnor Forest: A Poetic Journey by Kathryn Rossati
This collection of poetry was commissioned by the Isle of Wight National Landscape for their Nature Calling: Absorb and Respond project.
Author’s note
Forests are lively, wild things, and Bouldnor is no exception. Due to the presence of man-made structures within the area, alongside nature’s tendency to enjoy switching things up every now and then, some features mentioned in this collection may change over time.
How to read this collection
There are many paths to take when exploring a forest, and along each of them, you’ll find different curiosities and wonders. Rarely are any two visits the same.
I have designed this poetry collection to be as similar to that experience as possible. I advise starting at ‘Entrance’ and ending on ‘Exit’, but the poems between those may be read in any order.
You can choose to read from front to back, or back to front. You might decide to read only odd pages, or only even. Perhaps you’d like to select pages with prime numbers (2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19) or those that follow the Fibonacci sequence (0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21). Or you could leave it entirely up to chance and let the book fall open at any page and read from there.
The choice, and thus the path, is yours.
Let the adventure begin!
Entrance
The grey, dusty path lies ahead:
a hand, palm open, beckoning.
You adjust your backpack;
notepad and camera ready,
a wild plant guide tucked
into the pocket of your jeans.
Casting a glance either side,
noting the greenery swaying
in a gentle rhythm,
so different from the zoom
of cars on tarmac behind,
you take a lungful
of humid, petrichor air,
and step forwards, accepting
the forest’s coy invitation.
Yellow Warning
Acid moss and ivy
grow on stonework lining the bridge
which continues the way
over the brief gulley
(filled with reaching brambles
and slender oak saplings,
roots lost to shadowed undergrowth).
It would be tempting to peer further,
yet the pipework running alongside
snags your eyes instead.
The forest attempts to hide it
among raucous scrub,
glamouring each pipe into a tree limb.
Six white and glaring-yellow signs
flag their location, unapologetically declaring,
‘Warning: Risk of falling. Do not climb.’
Climbing may not have entered
your thoughts as an option; still,
authority’s voice moves your feet away.
Resistance surges within.
Raising your camera,
you capture the command,
taking care to collect
the tips of secrets underneath.
Unexpected Dwelling
Black vines; an inkling
the forest is not quite
what it first appears.
Surrounded by pines, hazels,
the odd skinny maple,
plentiful bed-head bracken,
and a shy hart’s tongue fern,
the black is a mere whisper.
The electricity pole a few steps on
only leads to further confusion
until a turn reveals a cottage,
caged and padlocked in.
A beat passes
in which your brain recalls
tales of such places.
Magic. Illusions.
Adventures abruptly ending.
Fine rain mists your face,
rinsing false perceptions away.
No sweet temptations here.
The building is empty,
entry barred due to renovations,
not witches.
The Gate is Locked
The path forks; a curve one way,
smooth, level for driving.
The other, cut off by a gate.
Heavy silver padlock, resolute, unyielding.
Metal bars that cannot be sidestepped,
sidled by, squeezed through.
There is a chance you could clamber.
Step, swing, hop down.
No gaze, robotic or human
to judge or witness.
Wind sings to rain, thrumming,
coaxing you to dance up and over.
Your feet edge closer,
but your notepad weighs heavy
in your hand, reminding
that the task is exploration,
absorption, sensing the environment.
Not trespassing.
If walkers were allowed to pass,
a stile would be present.
One isn’t, so back to the open way for you.
Quench down that lingering yearning.
Among Giants
Your eyes automatically track its height
from root to tip,
tilting your head back to the max,
unsure where the tree ends
and sky begins.
The cracks up its trunk
run deep;
stretchmarks from being unable
to contain its own might.
So enormous is it, flanked
by equally titanic siblings,
that you ponder whether this
is how an ant feels
when confronted with the world
beyond its nest.
These pines, holding vigil
with splayed needles
and rounded cones,
render you frozen, unable to thaw
until you’ve grown used
to their solid presence.
Bearing Fruit
Everywhere, they grow.
Unabashed, confident.
Their reddish-purple offerings,
plump to near-bursting with juice,
dangle within easy reach.
Scrambling stems attempt
to grab your ankles
while you peruse;
intense, serrated leaves
quick to conceal the thorns.
Much like a hand-fan, flared
to hide a look of guilt.
The plant doesn’t deceive you.
You’ve been tripped by its fellows
too many times
to trust it.
Depths
Treading the trails, each way
sprinkled with browning needles,
acorns, pinecones,
something gives you pause.
A clearing, deep within the trees,
glimpsed through thin arms
keen to obscure it.
You hear movement, half-expecting
a sprite or troll
to lumber into view.
Your muscles tense
despite the unlikelihood.
Blurred wings, flashing
back into the darkness
within seconds.
The trunks nearby groan.
Was it truly just a bird?
Or are there more creatures
hiding out of sight?
Wildflowers
Among the direct leaves of bramble,
fronds of bracken, and quiffs of grass,
long stems tipped with small yellow flowers
act as candles held up at a festival.
Complimenting their efforts, zings
of orange hang, lantern-like
in long lines and impressive clusters.
You detail both in your notebook,
adding records for the occasional
dry heads of teasel, long since bloomed
yet refusing to perish fully.
Red valerian also puts in a good effort;
its tall wigs of tiny, pink Turkish delight flowers –
similar to pom-poms – wave enthusiastically
as it cheers you on, celebrating
your finds alongside you.
Forest Soundscape
Leaves rustle as the breeze kisses their tips.
Lobed, serrated, oblong, round; it isn’t picky.
Light rain adds a steady rhythm, punctuated
by the snap of dry twigs
and crunching gravel
as your boots hit heavy despite your care.
Somewhere, a magpie laughs;
you wonder if it saw you trip.
Elsewhere, other birds strike up a warning.
There is a stranger present, and they don’t yet know
what to make of you.
Gates whine as you open and close them –
you’re curious as to whether the hinges
have ever been lubricated.
When the rain eases, grasshopper strings
sound, orchestra loud, around your knees.
All the while, trees creak
and bend towards each other,
whispering your description
along the row so the neighbours
will know what to expect.
Bridge to a Side Quest
It wasn’t obvious.
A few planks clinging to their shape
to cover the gap between
hither and thither.
You tread across it lightly, not wishing
to upset its balance.
An entire glade of lanky sedge
greets you on the other side, prodding,
leaning in too close, tickling your ears,
ushering you out of their space.
Before long, the bridge is lost
behind this meeting of stalks,
which goes on into time itself,
ending only once you’ve forgotten
which way is forwards
and which is back.
A brief thought of whether
the return journey will also defy the laws
of space and time
crosses your mind,
but you tighten your bootlaces,
breathe in the sweet, pollen-rich air,
and step out into the beyond.
Fungi
From above, it resembles
a conker or large acorn, snuggled
against dead leaves, fragments of branches,
and outgoing grass.
Star-leaves shield it
like parasols over beach chairs,
hiding it enough that you almost
step over, oblivious.
A fortunate breath from the wind
shakes the leaves aside, exposing
the tiny fruit of fungus.
What is it, exactly?
You mind itches to seek the answer,
to know, to be sure,
but the ID guide doesn’t cover it.
It’s not a penny bun or sulphur tuft,
and certainly not spotted fly agaric.
Research is key to tracking down the identity
of this cheerful mushroom.
Still, you ask yourself: “Will knowledge truly deepen
the pure pleasure of spotting it,
or simply make me feel more accomplished?”
For now, you allow yourself to enjoy the find,
unhurried to seek its name.
Grazing Ground
Cracked soil stretches on
like a parched mouth sticking its tongue out
in search of water.
Dips and holes, exaggerated
by the hefty tread of a tractor,
hide within copper and khaki
tufts of grass.
Thick gorse borders the area,
its prickly form distinct
against the surrounding, safer textures.
A butterfly
hiccups into your field of vision.
A washed-out wisp
with a map of markings.
It seems familiar, but you can’t
name it yet.
It lands on a well-chewed
patch of earth, fully on display.
Snapping a photo
for later identification,
you realise its wings point straight
to pebbled evidence of rabbits.
Beyond Fallen Land
Earth crumbles to a halt.
The land drops further
than is safe to jump.
You cannot continue this way
unless wings sprout
from your upper back
(sure to be a painful experience).
Open ground reaches wide,
gesturing to the treeline
descending into icy-sapphire water.
Sailing boats hurry
on the mirror-calm surface,
determined to make the most of the quiet.
The edge niggles at you.
Surely, there’s a way down?
You analyse the land’s angle.
Can you, if you sneak carefully?
A vision of yourself tumbling forever
flashes to mind.
You stomp your foot, agitated
at the logical voice in your brain,
advising health and safety first.
A Bench for Richard
It sits by a wall of gorse,
sliced-wood seat
worn smooth by the brush
of numerous posteriors.
Ramblers like you
who paused their journey
to process, reflect.
You don’t know who Richard is,
or was,
whether this view –
to your left, a dam of pine trunks,
uniform like teeth on a comb;
directly ahead, a vast walkway to the coast
where songs of fossils
fill the very air –
was a favourite
or simply a convenient space
to leave a bench,
but you’re thankful it’s here nonetheless.
Gold Hidden on an Endless Path
Glint, precious speck
engulfed by green!
Sunshine on an acorn?
Lemon yellow petals?
A traveller’s keepsake, lost
on an adventure?
Closer inspection
reveals a golden sweet wrapper, empty,
the brand name printed in bold
summoning memories
of comfort and family.
Did someone drop it intentionally,
aiming to redecorate the ground?
There is a chance; not all
value the wild as you do.
More likely, in this forest
favoured by dog-walkers
and casual-afternoon strollers,
the shimmering token
slipped from a pocket
while the owner checked
for poo bags or keys.
Dragonflies
Bold they are, resting on the path.
Little care for the feet
coming near.
Their long, metallic bodies
and zipping wings
blend with the gravel
until finally, they decide to rise,
level with your face,
darting back and forth
with more finesse
than an expertly piloted helicopter.
Some drift closer, curious
as to what you are,
but most
simply wait until you pass
before returning
to their comfort spot.
An Admiral Feeds
You spotted one earlier,
a flash of vermilion and black
in the distance.
This lively flutterer, however,
circles close to your arm,
investigative,
before being drawn to a full head
of white-pink micro flowers,
each bloom holding vital sustenance.
Landing, wings closed
to reveal their undersides
(snow-speckled inky tips,
ribbons of sunset red,
brindle
towards the body),
the admiral unfurls its proboscis
and sips hungrily at its find.
It doesn’t pause
when you ask for its picture,
dismissive
in favour of lunch.
Ferry Nice View
Halting between bushes, you inhale,
tasting the tangy, salt-filled gusts
billowing in from the ocean
visible at the edge of the path.
Two ferries approach from opposite shores,
their meeting scheduled
yet ruled by the tide.
A pleasant crossing for both, today –
no tiffs with the water.
They pass; practiced, rehearsed,
intent on delivering their precious cargos.
Masses of playful flora
cut into your view of the mainland,
though the ferry speeding
towards the island is clear.
It docks as easily as a bus
pulling up to station,
spilling cars and foot passengers
right into Yarmouth town.
For Your Information
The stile forces a separation
between you and the pines.
They watch as you swing
one leg over, then the other,
coming to an information board.
An illustrated map of the area, while the rest
talks history: a Mesolithic hunting ground
drowned by the rising sea
thanks to the thaw of the last ice age.
Brickworks from the 1800s – clay pits, kilns,
use of ponds and waterholes evident
on the landscape today.
Boundary markers, pill box, Bouldnor Battery:
relics of war, the latter’s remains
used as water storage tanks.
Confident in your choice, you make for the coastal path.
Two steps in, a grasshopper spattered
with ink-black markings
springs in front of your legs,
settling on an unabashed sprig of gorse.
A shift of position here, a shuffle there,
and it poses for a perfect portrait.
Thanking it for its time, you move on,
only for a common lizard to make an appearance.
Yet it is unimpressed with your photography skills,
choosing not to linger.
You shrug, unperturbed,
and make for that inviting coast.
Hazels
You walk the long bridge
(slippery from the fine netting covering its surface)
through the rushes parallel to the shore.
A comforting gathering of slim, wiry trees
welcomes you into their domain.
Their toothy, oval leaves usher you
towards the safest route,
though a fork teases your attention.
Sneaking off to explore, a low stump appears,
seeking to trip you.
Spotting it at the last moment,
you skip to avoid and find your feet
meeting the original path.
A breeze jostles the whippy branches around you;
the trees chuckle at your near-miss.
Ghost Trees
The bushy emerald gives way to the open;
sea a leap away.
Replacing the knotted trail,
sandy pebbles speckle the ground.
Grey fallen limbs, complete trunks, roots
still clinging to soil – clear
there was a last, desperate attempt
to grow on –
lie on their sides,
pushed out and abandoned by the forest.
Driftwood, you might have expected,
but not this.
Not these lost spirits,
whose leaves have long since fallen,
whose bark has been jewelled
by salt carried on the spray.
You study the channel of their branches,
the twists, the curves,
and imagine
before they fell, before seaweed took up residence,
how magnificent they must have been
in life.
Exit
Your time here
comes to a close,
information gathered.
Sights stamped into memory,
sounds on a loop in your head.
Noting down the wonders,
the curiosities you’ve seen,
you’re already planning
your return.
With an environment
as varied as this;
forest, heathland, coast;
a single visit
won’t capture everything.
There are different paths to take,
other flora and fauna
to find,
extra scents to sniff,
more moments to spend
feeling truly alive.