It lays so still, roots drinking in the sunlight. I wonder does it feel, did it ever? The earth sticks to the tendrils as if to give hope. Maybe the rain will come and feed the life that remains here. Dappled light like a filtered dream sends warmth in shards of the purest gold. The real treasure of this land so often ignored in our search for utopia we bypass paradise. The barbed wire and nettles compete, entwined like tiny daggers fighting to the death. I slide my way through this capsular path. The sodden ground seems to fight for ownership of my footprints….my roots. 

The colours are changing. The inevitable onslaught of short days and bitter winds are obvious here in this shedding of pigmentation. It’s as if nature plans ahead that it will give up nothing to the harshness of winter, we gain so much beauty from its selflessness.

Deeper in the fallen rest against their kin, still submerged in the earth until the gales return. 

I sit amongst them and I pull my pen from my bag. To write of how I see the wonderful things nature has given me. From the path of deepest amber to the birdsong that surrounds me, I feel contentment isn’t a fore gone conclusion. Always reaching for the stars just because they’re so distant. Maybe the stars have witnessed what humanity is capable of. I have no intention of stretching that high when the blessings that fill my gaze are as beautiful as any distant galaxy.

I rested the weight of my world against her. My tired limbs sheltered in her shade and I felt ashamed of the conflict and greed that scarred the landscape she cherished. 
I wipe the slate clean with every word, every rhythm, every whisper I write. Just for now I own these moments however brief. Sunlight brings a shimmer to the grass as it dances in the breeze. 

I don’t miss the endless rooftops, the constant drone of shoppers. I like seeing the distance and wondering what’s there. That vast nothingness and all the dreams it holds.

I know that when tomorrow comes and the routine of daily life drags me back it’s the knowledge of these places that will fill my thoughts until the indistinct paths of timeless footprints lead me back.

In those sleepless hours I think of you. The colours that you left behind in my heart are constantly flowing. They are a welcomed reminder of everything good. 

There’s no remnants of bitterness, the colours have seen to that. Where coldness took root only warmth now resides. I keep nothing hidden. 

So when contentment comes into question I find the threads of our connection are enough however fragmented. Alone isn’t the same as loneliness. 

That this ink still flows onto pages warmed by the sunlight. I still have the words inside my heart. So often I’ve spilt them like a tumbling mess of insecurities. Line after line of wishful thinking
Sometimes the pages feel so rough as if all of these emotions have been soaked up, the spine cracked from the weight of this world. 
What was important to me then remains the same, but I no longer stumble blindly into rules written for another individual who came before me. 
What have we done to stop this tide? What categories do we place ourselves into for the sake of filling time. Lonely hearts and horoscopes of which I could never be a part. 
The unconditional is still bound by conditions. 

The mist clings in pockets, unhindered it rests. It fills the land with shadows of eerie moisture, penetrated by branches and spires, reflecting the colour of the sky. 

On still days when the ground sticks to my feet, I feel the season turn and leave. Its farewell letters littering my path like a lovers notebook when love is lost. 

It’s in these moments I become stuck, but willingly so. The land prepares to slumber and I am immersed here. Soon the storms will rake over this ground and my footprints will be lost.

Jumping puddles, leaping over reflections cast by time. I feel the mud splatter against my clothing and I wish I could take root, right here in the shadows amongst the mist. 

The ground is sodden from days of heavy rainfall, soft underfoot like a carpet littered with remnants of the discarded season. Nature’s thinning expertise. 

Only the highest branches sway in the wind, still in full leaf they roar like the winter tides. Leaves float through the canopy as feathers gliding from the flock. They land to become another golden layer. 

Soil replenished as the fallen feed the roots below. Death here happens in silence, last gasps not gasps at all. Giants sleep and become a resting place for those who venture deep. 

Breathe it in, this incredible masterpiece. This self seeding wonderland, where every colour that exists flowers in abundance. Autumn will fade and shadows will grow with the low winter sun. What lies dormant here does so with unrivalled knowledge. 

My empathy wanes for this destructive beast, the human condition the greed on which we feast. 

Thought I’d head out to where the grass grows long. To get away from the constant hum. If only for a while. I sat amongst the silence, camera muted and the world on hold.

This has become my place, when the normality of Sundays routine is too routine. It’ll be there on my return, but for now it’s a memory. I pass farmland where the cattle graze, uninterested in my footsteps. Their fate already decided, of which I’m glad they’re unaware. 

I can feel the muscles in my legs at full stretch a burn from the gradient. It’s here that the view opens up. Of grassland and cliff tops. I deviate from the route. I’ve found a path less trodden where can lay my blanket without obstruction. 

I take my notebook and write, of the things I’ve passed. I drink coffee and read for a while surrounded by birdsong and contentment. Fleeting thoughts of the chaos we inflict on one-another. The very reasons I need to escape just once in a while, for perspective.

I’m on a hillside, secluded by hedgerows and trees that canopy the route, canopies abundant with berries now. I hope I can sit here throughout the seasons, I hope I can watch autumn turn to winter and write of deepest reds and icicles. 

The weather forecast says rain later, it’s around six miles back to my starting point. I dry my cup and roll up my blanket. The rucksack now one cup of coffee lighter. 

It’s a short walk down to the cliff edge. Chalk lies on the beaches below, the sea acts like an eraser here. I’m drawn to the edge, I can’t call it magnetism, it’s just a desire to look. I’ve heard some people say “imagine falling”, but I never imagine that. It’s breathtaking and naturally beautiful. I want to be here when the winter tides lash against this shore. 

The cliffs look different when lit with watery sunlight, like whites washed in an inferior detergent. The cottages come into view here. A thread of hope that ran through ‘Atonement’ a dream sequence ignited by a picture on a postcard. That one thing that keeps us all going.  
The erosion here is extensive, but people are fighting to save this shoreline. Ropes stop you from reaching certain areas at this point and although they are minimal in their restrictive properties I avoid the temptation to limbo. 
To the left of me The Meanders flow. To the right the steep shingled beach. 

Light rain has started to fall, but it’s not persistent yet. I take the riverbank walk. Stepping over the tank defences, remnants of WW2 are scattered along these coastal paths. The water here is stagnant green. 

The wind has strengthened and I can hear the waves lapping against the shingle behind me, but it fades to a whisper as I turn onto the riverside path. I have no phone signal throughout this walk, another reason why it feels like actual escapism. Pastimes are lost to social media, that need to instantly share every step with a photo. How much is lost through that disconnection, having to drag someone back into a moment is a moment lost. 

I stop for a coffee at one of the makeshift benches that are scattered along the path. Dragonflies skim the water before darting off so sharply that they almost become invisible. A small murmuration of starlings swoop overhead then gather in nearby trees. I adore the sounds they make. Sneezing, whooping and that cackling sound. Beautiful birds with their oily sheen. 

My notebook is damp from the random drops of rain. 

I feel detached here, like that bigger picture that I’m a part of is just a weight put upon my shoulders to keep me in line. It’s a great feeling to leave that load behind. The restraints of four walls where the TV rules is someone else’s breathing space, not mine. 

The river widens and the water no longer stagnant. Gulls float on its current, their chatter constant. Sheep grazing on the grassland between inspecting me with a nervous glance and understandably so. Their young taken from them months ago. I wonder how they feel. Humanity is a cruel master, such a disregard for life as they search for utopia. Greed, fame, hero worship. The downfalls of the idiot flock. 

If my time were to end here I’d be ok with that. Out here close to the very thing that I’ve grown to respect more than any other. 

The clouds are gathering. I pass a clump of wool caught on a barbed wire fence. It’s rough to the touch, but that’s natures design….to protect against the elements. 

I’ve swam in these waters. It’s not the most graceful experience, in parts it’s more wading than swimming nonetheless I can’t wait to swim here again. At sunset there’s a tranquility that swathes this place like a protective film of amber. 

My back is wet with drizzle being driven by the wind, but it’s the final path of my walk. I take a left through a gate and leave the riverbank’s reflection. It’s mostly uphill now, past more cattle adorned with numbered ear tags and sheep sprayed with colours and I can’t help but contemplate their suffering again and again. My emotions are justified in my head and they won’t ever change. 

I pass the hayloft. It makes me smile, I imagine clandestine meetings on windswept evenings here. The fumbling of fingertips on buttons, lips so hungry that only the most urgent of kisses could satisfy. 

The remainder of the walk is on the roadside. I put my notebook in my rucksack and head towards the hum.