By Tim Goldstone
Where nothing else can grow except rows and rows of regimented Forestry Commission pine standing fanatically still and silent and cold even in daylight obediently creating their own blank dark, a little girl gulping down the dark dead chill, breathing it out in patterns of warmth, canters down the first row smiling, throwing tinsel from the basket over her arm up into the lowest darkest branches. “There you are, trees!” she repeats insistently up and down their serried ranks. A piece of tinsel slips off a branch. She stops, stoops to pick it up, stands on tip-toe, carefully places it gently back in the tree, smiles, whispers “Would you like a story?” …The other trees lean in…
Tim Goldstone has roamed widely. His short stories and poems are published in numerous print and online journals and anthologies – ranging from The Mechanics’ Institute Review Anthology to The Mambo Academy of Kitty Wang. His prose sequence was read on stage at The Hay Festival, and his poetry presented on Digging for Wales. Scriptwriting credits for TV, radio, theatre. Twitter @muddygold
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