The evening light is warm as toast casting long terracotta shadows on the woodland grasses. The Robin is back! The bare branches allow me to follow him along the track. But . . .
Windswept, freckly and fairly wrinkly
While I am standing beneath this Sycamore, besotted with its golden glow, leaves are passing away in front of my eyes. A little death is taking place as each one turns, decays and falls. Autumn and it's peaceful slowing brings the inevitable truth to mind. The wrinkling up of my smily eyes like a crisping leaf, curling and fraying at . . .
Busy bees, the hoverflies and us.
We are busy; the bees, the hoverflies and us. We are buzzing, and flitting and re-focussing our intentions. We are working all hours to keep body and . . .
