Painted, crafted and formed by the ever turning dials of our universe, our woods are celebrating youth. Darkness dissolves, and like a slow lapping of silver waves, light moves through , reaching and unfurling just like the young ferns, rolling through silken strands of bluebells to tease the dye from strand and strand of forest fabric.

A woodpecker’s staccato is the only contrasting sound to the soft whisper in the leaves before the smaller birds fluff their feathers and start their soprano chorus of violins and flutes. Humankind’s machinations, charring voices, roads and traffic, hushed in the distance, fading for now.

In this clearing of age-old sycamore, ash and oak, life is full. A silhouetted antler behind a tree, a cracking of twigs. Stepping out of shyness’ shadow and into the light, dressed in russet, finely spun we watch each other quietly before she calmly passes on. A thrush then follows her passage, hoping and flying from branch to branch.