I went for a lunchtime walk by the river. At first I noticed only cyclists and joggers, bits of rubbish among the leaf litter. Then I watched a dog charge into the water. Chasing a gull, it launched itself, paws paddling furiously, a triangle of wake lanes rippling behind it. The bird planed low over the water, a stretch of white wings against the steel blue, unbothered. I noticed how most of the green was at ground to eye level, ivy wrapped round tree trunks while the branches above remained bare. There was one yellow leaf amongst all the green ones. Above, the wind blew clusters of dried seed pods like fists of confetti, rustling as the branches moved. The shadows of the canopy made a cage of the path, dark and light striped across the mud.
A fallen tree trunk, thick and knotted, was colonized by turkey tail fungus, it’s grey brown patterns subtle but beautiful once I stopped, muted colour banded around their crescents. The wood beneath was swirled, shaped by growth spurts and weather and all the things that happened as it aged. There were early daffodils on the bank, more leaf than flower still, a peep of yellow just starting to show through. An old man passed me, his steps slow and determined, his scarf lime yellow, bright against the rest of him. I found tiny furled buds of green on a low branch, leaves waiting to burst forth. On the river, a female rowing four passed by, moving in perfect unison through the water, leaving arrow shaped ripples in their wake.
Bonnie Radcliffe 