Creative Writing?

"It was a crisp, winter's night just before midnight when she arrived unnoticed. The air was silent, save for the chill dancing in the trees, their skeletal branches rustling above her head as her hooded figure drifted quickly across the moonlight path by the river. They had been planning this for months, she thought to herself; every minor detail was catered for in her mind, every move, every noise, every step, everything was to go like clockwork. These thoughts repeated in her head as she made her way soundlessly along the path, slowing every so often to hesitantly listen to her surroundings. Once, near where the river widened, she stop completely and stood motionless in the shadows. Had she heard something? Could she see something hidden in the dense foliage on the river bank? This abrupt pause took no longer than a few seconds before the figure broke into a run, her feet pounding on the gravel path, the crunch resounding in the still air alongside her shallow breathing. The moonlight danced across her figure from behind tree branches and clouds, providing little light as it painted shapes on the the path and glistened on the river flowing beside her.

His presence was masked by the shadows of the building he was leant upon. He checked his watch, the small hands illuminated by the solitary light of a match- it was fast approaching midnight and yet he was still alone. Flicking the match onto the gravel at his feet, he sighed delving his hands into his pockets. With a mixture of curiosity and boredom, he felt the objects that lay within them. His grandmother had always said you could tell a lot about a man from the contents of his pockets; but then again, he though to himself, she was a crazy old dear. His thumb brushed against the rough box of matches, the twines of knotted string, and with male instinct, he couldn't resist jingling his keys. He wasn't altogether sure what his grandmother would have gathered about him from the three items in his pockets, but he knew it would be a different story with the contents of his backpack that lay by his feet. He sighed again, listening to the darkness that surrounded him with great interest. The echoes of a distant highway, the soft murmur of the stream bubbling by, the wail of a nearby alley cat.. they all drifted to his ears. But after a few moments his ears picked up the sound of footsteps upon gravel coming towards him. Footsteps, he knew, that belonged to whom he had been waiting in the shadows for. His fellow criminal's footsteps."

So yeh, me and James are criminal masterminds! But, no, really, I wrote this because I've been thinking a lot about Creative Writing these past few days and how its not really done in English when you get passed a certain level; I haven't done any since the hazy days of First Year and I think its a bit of a shame. I loved creative writing, not that I am/was good at it or anything, but because I love imagining things and depicting it through words. I think its something just about everyone can do -we do it everyday- and enjoy yet its not a major part of the curriculum (there is probably a good reason for this, do let me know what it is) It is a bit late just now, but I am going to look into this further; I got a bit carried away in my imagination above- I do apologise for a bit of a rambling post! :)