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
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