Crawlspace Spinney

Not really a wood, but an irregular triangle of trees, an accidental region bordered by forgotten back garden fences, obscure stone walls, the high and smooth-scarred surface of a factory wall.
The trees here are clustered in thick and close. Pine trees of a sort. The ground is littered with needles and cones.
It is impossible to work out quite how large this wooded area - this cramped triangle of trees is - as the air is so crammed full of branches and wood and bark and brown it is not possible to see from one edge - one border - to another.
It is no larger than a small back garden though, and I only know this for I have measured the borders of this region in dreams and daydreamy afternoons. Hours of drizzle and staring out of windows that look like school windows.
It is often night here, and lying on the ground of the wood, the sky is mostly obscured.
Rumours of stars or a shard of street lamp orange.
A nostalgia, little more.
A breeze almost constantly.
It is tempting at first to liken it to breathing, but this would not be accurate. It has more in common with some kind of irregular tide. An up-and-down swell that tastes of attics and old paperback books and childhood night-times with the window open and staring across fields at a sway of distant poplars, god-like on horizons.
So close I could touch it, but this arrhythmic wood, this crawlspace spinney, has never existed, and because it has never existed, is far, far more real than anywhere that ever has.