Author Archives: Irene Amiet

Of an early morning, amber eyes flit over dew-soaked meadows, wings buzzing quietly over thistle and grass, lifting, lowering, catching the breeze. Late of an

When there is nothing but bad news, doomsday approaching on poison-fume horses ridden by scythe swinging riders, I walk the woods. Patchy as they are

With their keen sense of smell, badgers are a tricky species to photograph and patience is the only fitting key. After locating a suitable habitat,

At dawn, stillness wrapped in emeralds and anthracite, the airs a glassy curtain, heavy on the shoulder, cold on the skin. Across the field and

All that can seem hostile and cold; biting winds, wet skies and twilight is but simmering coal from which the shadows spring, painting the season’s

Autumn arrives on a carriage drawn by horses of mist. Cotton-gauze swathed trees stand still in a moving sea of colour ever-changing with the layers of

When the sun stays up late and the flowers reach out to touch the sky, when daddy-longlegs paint the air with notes sung by the

The sun sets over the rim of coastal hills near Silverdale in Lancashire and the cloudless sky of an early spring evening glazes over with a

Migratory birds draw eyes and hearts with their calls and mesmerising shape-shifting through the fluid colours of dawn and dusk. The birds are pulled by

The valley wakes under a duvet of mist. The nights are cooler once more, the air rich with moisture. The forests change, day by day.