• Bracknell Dusk Walkers

Bracknell Dusk Walk in Swinley Forest and Ceasar’s Camp

On Sunday 20th March (Vernal Equinox), the 3rd Bracknell Dusk Walk took place in Swinley Forest, leading the group all the way to Ceasar’s Camp.

Photography Andy Willsher.

Words Scott Farlow.

This project is part of the Laurence Payot’ residency with Bracknell Regeneration Partnership, working with Artscape Management.

 

Caesar’s Camp

He
Never came this way.
But we have,
Along with those before us
Who came
And climbed
Like we did.
Through the trees
And out of the shadows
To emerge
From the forest cloak
A top
A conquered plateau.

Yesterday,
And countless days before
Footprints of countless feet
Marked the passage of time
Upon countless fallen leaves
Upon countless layers of dust
Through countless cycles
Of growth
And
Decay.
Of Light
And
Dark.
Of Life
And
Death
And growth, life and light again.

And Now,
With each step
By step
By collective step,
We seek the warmth and light
In the brimming solace
Of this not so empty space.
Another place
Of life,
And lost souls,
And forgotten souls
Embedded in the soil
And the far distant echoes
Filtered through the curtain
That then came to rest
Beneath the souls
Of our feet
That now trace the outline
Of the ancient Quercus leaf. 

What does it feel like to be here now?

What does it feel like to be here
Now?
Can you hear
Yourself think?
Your heart beat
As your feet move
Your spirit, your gentle soul, your gentle self
Softly across the soul
Of this soft earth?

Was it only last week that we met?
Not here.
But elsewhere.
There,
And near to here?
Can you still hear
Yourself think?
And feel the enveloping
Stillness of the world about us?
And sense the rich tapestry
And rhythm of life
And death
Beneath, within and all around us?

What would this place feel like
With no trees?
No shimmering leaves.
No dappled light.
No shadows cast.
No moss, no murmurs, no mirth
Of bird song.
No flight.
No calling.
No echoes.
No falling.
No insects boring.
No depth.
No colour.
No richness of touch, texture,
Or sight
Or sound
Of rutting deer here
Or wild fruits to taste
No iridescence
No mystical sense
Of purpose
Or place
Just absence
in this space.
No nothing
Of familiar note,
But something else;
A different world
With a different light
A different darkness
A different soul
A different sense of it all
In nothing known.
A different sense of belonging
In not knowing.
A different sense,
An absence.
That makes
No sense
At all.

By Scott Farlow.