The forest is magical today. Beech leaves stream down like rain, carried on a breeze lit by the orange glow of autumn sunlight. The birds sit high up in the treetops, their voices carrying down to the undergrowth of brambles, fern and foxgloves stems, hanging down, brown, lifeless, yet dropping seeds for new growth come spring.
You walk carefully, there is no path here. Stepping over the grasping brambles you hope the direction is correct. The only map you have lies deep in your heart, and at times it falters, you pause, you fear you must be lost.
But just as you think you must be crazy to even try to find this elusive route, it shows itself once more, in the cry of a blackbird flitting through the tree trunks, or the spotlight created by an opening in the canopy overhead, a golden halo crowning a sapling, still clutching a few of it’s orange leaves.
And your heart opens. Your feet follow the signs. Until the next time to pause.
Image Kirsten Ivatts 2020