Walking pole in hand.
Clump of boots and tick of stick.
Striding out along the path.
Down the hill.
Buzzards wheeling above the trees.
Rooks cawing in protest.
Along the footpath,
squelch and slip.
The mud reveals the
night time visitors to this field.
Deer, badger and fox
trod where I now tread.
Golden leaves hang and shake
as gold coins on a dancing belt.
Here, I see the fieldfares
feasting on nature's berry bounty,
hips, haws, blackberry and rowan,
Trip, trap over the bridge.
No trolls here.
Water taking my path as a short cut.
Along to the spinney marvelling
again at waters power,
where the brook cuts the clay.
The spinney path is still frozen from yesterday's frost,
crystals decorate leaf and blade.
The sun never sees down here.
The brook again,
The water runs into the sinkhole,
disappearing down to the rock below
to appear once more as a spring down along.
Spring Wood covers the hill top,
and I turn away, up the valley side