This is the point at which the prose that was sort of being composed in my head as I took my walk through the forest, looses connection with the photographs.
I have a kind of work in progress, of which you have been getting edited parts with my last few posts. Here is another chunk, in which these Rowan tree berries feature:
But my eyes have seen, my ears have heard, my feet have crunched and my mind has learned, that all things were created.
And then, the sound of the traffic breaks the spell and brings me to reality and the pain in my knee and my sister’s call and the urgent pull of the clock and the pounding tick tock in my chest as back home each card is played and the online game will soon come to rest.
And this daughter needs to be making cups of tea and sorting out electricity, bills and record keeping, message seeking.
My thoughts are paused as a bird of prey calls and I retrace my steps for the glimpse that I get and I reign in my desire as I watch the bird soar higher, and higher, and .. gone. And I tell myself there will be another day on which to stay and watch.
A moment to spend before dimming my sensors, inhaling the scent of the forest ferns, admiring the red and the glow of the rowan and the still green berries of the elder, and climbing the staircase on and up and to Gresty’s waste.
