As chestnuts fall onto first shed leaves, splitting their shells, a year’s worth of fruition is offered to the ones flitting by. Food for sustenance of body, and food for the soul in what was shaped, formed and moulded during light-filled months.

Ripened berries, scarlet dots of small trouvailles to be picked apart and so passed on. Fanned feathers flit past the last of the seed-heads on meadows starting to disintegrate to add to the soil from which they sprung.

The stag’s calls echo above tree crowns and across the moors, making us believe they roam free forever more and no walls and fences could contain them.

Now the woods start telling stories again, no longer distracted by summer’s waltzing and prancing under a late sun’s glow, but there is a call to gather and exchange.

In this bouquet of revelations the owl rests, internalising treasure, drawing our eyes to the core of creation.

The evening skies turn lavender and leaves are daubed in rose.