There is this tiny copse of gnarled trees on my walk to the woods. They sit beneath the shade of an old evergreen macrocarpa, in a dip in the path. Their trunks are a little twisted, and some of the roots are showing. These trees seem altogether magical, as if a gnome might pop out of the bank beneath them at any given moment, and ask you to dinner. Yet something about that shady bay, with the twisted trees, seems a little disquieting - the magic of the place is powerful. Every time I pass them by, I hurry onwards, while bidding them 'good day.'