It doesn’t seem long since we were enjoying blossomy trees and children were playing amongst the bluebells. Now, life is retreating again and the sun is muted by washed out skies.
The wood is not yet dead just preparing for rest, and this clearing is like a house strewn with the remains of a riotous party. It is a place recovering from the excesses of time well spent.
It is peaceful here where the smell of decay is sweet. There is not much sound, only the crunch of leaves and a lone crow’s call stabbing onto into the cold air.
The wood is not yet dead and the glorious shades of yellow and red seem to insist that in even in the dark seasons is something to celebrate.
The beauty of the wood never ends, but it also never stands still. The wood is not yet dead.