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 tales on the anthracite morning sky. The stag moves into the clearing, an archaic silhouette of armoured strength balanced on graceful hooves, strutting past sturdy oak and drooping ash into autumn’s dawn, a wonderful illustration sprung from the ink-marbled land.

As day eases out of darkness’s covers, it piles its bed-throws on the valley floor, stepping out of discarded blankets, tree by tree, barn roof and spire.

While mist continues to swirl, the sun enters the forest, its rays sliding down stems to touch lichen and bark before reaching the ground; stirring moments blotted in shed leaf and branch, a summer’s worth of memories, now pulled into the ground; laughter, tears and traces of the ones who scampered past.

When light fades once more, the skies are threaded by birds bound for their roost, here for the season, recounting their tales with excited shrieks and caws, wings woven into lilac skies.