The bracken is low, below my waist at least. Sometimes even below my knees.
Only two weeks ago it was pawing at the sky above my head. My hands too pawed through its feral maze; it was suffocating, stiflingly green and everywhere. Now it slumps in an orange tinged heap beneath my waist. The breeze is cool, the air damp, I am wearing a wooly hat. Slowly, subtly, summer is coming to its end.
It lingers in ways. Oak, beech and lime (among others) hold their leaves aloft. Bramble slithers across paths, over walls, around your ankles. Sunset heather sets the moor ablaze in pink swathes. But the few remaining bilberries shrivel on rusting foliage as rowan and honeysuckle bear clumps of rosy fruit and grasses fold back earth to reveal the rotting wood and mossed rocks concealed below.
The birds have not sung their last, their song endures far into the winter. But whilst swift and swallow still grace our skies it’s clear they are contemplating their long migration to the continent. As ever their sojourn feels far too short. Midges, on the other hand, always far outstay their welcome swarming hill and crag when the wind is low. But their days are numbered, we are counting them down.
Darkness, no more intense than before, creeps forward. It is not yet cool but hushed and without the buzz of June and July when each day rolled seamlessly into the next. Sunlight has shifted – shadows lengthening ever so slightly – and idles into each day a little more reticent than the last.
We too descend from the hills a little earlier, our thoughts in rowan jam, apple crumble, chestnuts and winter sun. No more does summer and its possibilities stretch endlessly ahead. Soon it will fade, and with relief we will retire into quieter seasons.
Hati Whiteley 