dryad

September 23, 2011 § 1 Comment

Walking a familiar track by a ploughed field, rimmed at one edge by conifers whose fallen needles cushion her footsteps, she passes neglected plum trees now empty of fruit, and a tangle of brambles. Turning the corner, passed almost daily, she is arrested by a sudden shift of colour: what was green is now caramelised and blushed, a young tree flirting with the skirts and scarves of  autumn which shift intriguingly not yet ready to bare the skeleton of its naked form.

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