Dinner table

It was never going to be a bright day, the weather wizards had stated such, and the elements weren't going to contradict their predictions. Flat grey was the order of the day, along with an occasional side helping of mizzle, through this we made our way tacross the Bratley valley from Mogshade to Bratley Wood. Bratley Wood I've described before, ancient and veteran trees, with the odd block of juveniles, all in an open setting (sadly more open in recent years), many of the trees have suffered from storms and the ravages of time, though rather than fall they stand their ground in gnarly obstinance. The most glorious of woods, and in the right circumstances enchanting to the point of moving. Eventually even the most resilient trees must fall, still though, when they bud no more, and they return to whence they came, they retain their place in the wood.  Here a once proud leviathan, now little more than a hulk, serves as a dinner table, the site of last nights feast. On the menu, pigeon, it's invariably pigeon, they appear the fast food of the woods. But, whose dinner? For a moment the sun breaks through, it warms and transforms the whole scene, the stands come to life. This is more like it. The light brings out the rich palette of a damp woodland in winter, all greens and browns, earthy colours, apt really as the remains of our tree are literally turning to earth. The burst of sunlight is fleeting though, soon grey triumphs and Bratley somehow fades as the light flattens. Still magical, although its beauty hidden beyond a veil.