Early Winter Sun

Early winter sun; low in the sky Warm light burnishing the yellow leaves that stubbornly cling to the birches Silver trunks contrast with their own dark shadows Russet browns of the larches beyond add a touch of fire And the lattice of twigs and branches from the oaks and ashes In harmonious concert, complete the sylvan scene Texture is added by the gritstone crags here and there And by the heather and grasses of the moorland foreground A babbling brook tumbles over rocks and falls Separating the open bleakness of the moor From the closed impenetrability of the woodland beyond The trees cloak the hillside, giving rise To an amazing palette of colour As layer upon layer of species and pattern Weave an intricate canvas painted in unbelievable hues Of ochre, burnt sienna, and umber An ancient stone path Worn deep by two centuries of feet and their untold histories Winds its way down to the packhorse bridge And into the woods, airy now in winter, but dense in summer A dipper walks impossibly under the water before hopping out onto a rock The pungent smell of mushrooms, making me hungry Affords the excuse to dally a little longer I rest against a dry stone wall with my lunch and flask And bask in the human solitude As I commune with the abundance of life that surrounds me Shortly I will have to leave this place For I have a few miles yet to go The days are short now and the light will fade fast But, although I will have to leave this place This place will never leave me