After a crisp evening, when Pendle glowed in sandstone red under a Michelangelo blue, and one’s breath stung skin and chest, Bonfire Night opened the gate to winter’s palace. A light frost covered the valleys of Ribble and Hodder early this morning. The sheep’s breath hung like puffs of cigar smoke in the air, and each grass had dressed itself in a glassy cloak.
Where most of the season of plenty’s traces have blown away in wind and rain, a few leaves still burn in copper and gold, like beacons of survival. Aglow and adorned, they’re mocking reminders of a sun that is moving farther away. Until they, too, will fall to the forest floor, to blanket the soil beneath as it slumbers.