The repetitive patterns in the winter leaves made Clarke feel like he was playing on a carpet; from a once forgotten lounge.
Swallowed by the forest, the air felt milder; an invisible, unscented smoke hovered high above the refrigerated mince of woodland soil.
On the ‘Otherside’ (from beyond the ditch) were perfect branches and twigs a plenty; perfect for finishing the greatest den.

Clarke jumped into the ditch whole-heartedly, a ditch created by the landing of a clumsy giants arm, and he disappeared toe to head in the deepest, softest patch of leaves imaginable.

Miraculously, Clarke discovered he was on the ‘otherside’. Standing there, looking on at his parents; they seemed statuesque in their mid stretch and bend to collect their woody additions.

‘Mum… Dad?’ He called out to them nervously. 

They couldn’t hear him or see him, for they may as well of been painted on canvas and hung as stillife in a hallway.

Clarke panicked, and jumped into the very same patch of leaves.

Relief immediately surged through Clarke’s small frame… He felt he was somewhere safe after all. Clarke ran like a bouncing, rolling jack to his parents who continued to forage with renewed vigor.