Back at home and there are ghost leaves in the garden. The green flesh has yellowed and fallen away, leaving the intricate web systems exposed. Their skeletons are more beautiful than when they were fully fleshed. The Japanese maple in the corner is rustling with a fiery orange red, and the grass is tall, half colonized by calf high weeds. I go for a walk and, tired, can’t find my way to woods and fields; instead I miss a turn and end up walking in circles in suburban streets. Still, it is good to move and there’s a begonia blooming in a flowerbed and bright round rose hips on all the bushes. I notice a lady bird half hidden in the curled leaves of a variegated hedge – a Japanese spindle, I think? There is one big pink rose still in bloom among the red berries and evergreen foliage. Overhead, sycamore pods dangle black and dry, and caged branches strike through the sky.
I find the entrance to the field and am in something closer to countryside. Everything is muted, washed out or veiled by the low light, the grey cloud, but there are still greens and golds, russets and reds in the canopy that edges me in. I look for the dark thin patches of bare branches scattered among the colour and, looking down, find yarrow sprouting at my feet, as white as cow parsley in spring.
Bonnie Radcliffe 