in the sun shunned wet
the earth stirs and rises up
slender stalks shoulder
the secret places
where sad old trees go to die
teeming with colour
Went for a walk in the moors and woods. If you look closely, the fungi are everywhere. In those sun shunned secret places. I don’t know much about identifying them, but they are all beautiful in their own way. Here are some photos I took (copyright: Me!). These are real scenes of autumn, the colours of autumn.
Rusty pheasants crank
Daffodils pale in the gloom
Dusk light fades to black
Was a warm clear day. I walked through the moors to get home from the station (Arsenal beat villa 3-0) at dusk. The temperature was wonderfully cool, where a fleece is perfect. When the daylight falls, you rely on other senses. Hearing and smell. Like our ancestors.
I could hear a right old racket in the woods, Pheasants barking at each other, their grating calls like a 1920s car horn. The daffodils looked pale, almost white in the failing light. I like the lonesomeness of the woods and moors at night.
Not many people use the moors at this time, but I did pass two lads with a flashlight and their inquisitive dog. And a lady, powerwalking with her own canine companion. I bade them all a good evening well in advance of our paths crossing, just in case they hadn’t seen me. I don’t want to startle anyone or make them uncomfortable. Not that the night should make people any less friendly, but the darkness does provoke a mistrust in others. Again, the primitive part of our brain, sensing danger. We’re outside of the cave, we’re exposed, our night vision isn’t as good as the predators. Wolves prowl.
Green shoots dusty ground
Tattered black banners flutter
Scarecrows’ grave markers
I went for a run today, completed 5 miles, instead of my usual 3.5 so I was pleased with myself. To fill out the distance I took in Centenary Wood as well as the Moors. There is a public footpath through a field to get to the Wood. As the farmer had recently ploughed it, there was no discernable footpath so to speak, but I could see the path marker diagonally opposite the field boundary, so I had to pick through the big bumpy clumps of earth, rolling my ankles and knees in the process to get back on the path. Was quite energy sapping but I avoided injury.
Anyway, the field itself was dry and dusty, but there was something growing in it, little green grass like crops were poking through. It was obvious it was a crop as the farmer had installed these wooden waist high frames with pieces of black sackcloth flapping in them, to scare the birds.
I just imagined these were graves markers for scarecrows who’d been forcibly retired, trussed up with rope, unstuffed of their straw, burnt and their scraps buried. At night they’ll crawl out of the earth and kill us all. Just thought you should know.
The facile wingbeat,
Turn, Arc, Ascent to heaven,
Prince over woodland.
On Sunday I walked to the station, the image of the big buzzard, hanging powerful in the sky made an impression.
(image from RSPB website)
Dusk comes, tiny yawns,
Mud caked feet pass, crushed acorns,
Breakfast time for sprites.
Went for a run earlier, it was windy and desolate. When everyone goes home from their dog walking and evening walks, I sometimes wonder if the woods and moors come alive at night?
