Michaelmas is long gone and no one has told the blackberries up here. I wasn’t about to let on. Under stripes of cloud and sun, a fruit feast is plucked, is popped, piece by piece, in to a thirsty mouth. Cut stalks noisy under walking feet, fingers tinged purple; from fields to moors over the river, I spy out. I shall traverse this open ground, I announce, whilst the air holds dry.
But into the small woods we are drawn, Dog and I; her by scent and me by leaf.
Sometimes we see more, standing in shade.
Structures in bright relief.
Dog can easily follow the path as it tunnels under fern and bramble. I follow, stumble, trousers caught in thorny twine.
No less happy - this is adventure. This is story living, story making.
We become what we live, so we should live with care and abandon.
In the light, to stride, to acknowledge happiness.
In the shade, to know the light shines through.
To be of structural interest.
Leaves are falling, as we head home along our winding lane.
They land lightly, drift in a breeze, coloured warm.
But into the small woods we are drawn, Dog and I; her by scent and me by leaf.
Sometimes we see more, standing in shade.
Structures in bright relief.
Dog can easily follow the path as it tunnels under fern and bramble. I follow, stumble, trousers caught in thorny twine.
No less happy - this is adventure. This is story living, story making.
We become what we live, so we should live with care and abandon.
In the light, to stride, to acknowledge happiness.
In the shade, to know the light shines through.
To be of structural interest.
Leaves are falling, as we head home along our winding lane.
They land lightly, drift in a breeze, coloured warm.
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