I live on the edge of a town, populated mostly from the 1950’s post war boom. Industry crowds every street and leaves ugly gray pebbledash in its wake. Just five minutes from the edge of my housing estate,  lays a paradise only found in story books, classical literature and fairy tales. 
Damp, soft ground in every colour of brilliant mossy greens and Earthy browns.  Mole hills errupt the uniform fields into a battlefield, bordering rabbit holes and fox runs in straight lines. Beyond the fields of green and brown runs a trench, overwhelmed with murky, crisp water flowing rapidly away from the houses; as if nature itself is fleeing the ever growing, ever expanding town. My ruined shoes follow the stream over the wild terrain towards the tree line in the near distance. As my footfalls grow increasing more rapid and unstable, the Stream itself becomes wild. Sloshing madly, it disappears beyond the thick blanket of trees and into a land I’m not brave enough to explore. Not yet.