She stirs in the still hard ground of my grief , messenger of hope, promise of re-leaf. Naked and newborn without armour or shield, witness to healing (to wounds already healed?) …

The river falls headlong. Her raven waters burnished to a sheen, thick and glossy like wet pelt. A peat-soaked soul with amber eyes, sheathed in shrewdness and intention. …

High in the canopy, above the wide muddy river that winds its sluggish way through the tangle of Bornean forest, an orangutan mother enjoys her first feed of the new day…

Above, the sky is thin and translucent, clear as water straight from the spring. And there you are in the midst of all that silent spacious clarity .…

I reach out a hand to touch one of these remnant embers. The deep cool of its time-drenched drowsing tingles through my skin. Energy of stone fonts within me…

Towering screes of glacial rock, in shades from taupe to plum, flank the pewter sheen of Wastwater. Crowning the head of England’s deepest lake lie the great gables, barrows and pikes that command this hallowed place...

Hard to fathom the loss you stir in me, lying so still on my cold garden path. Burnished softness around your throat dappled with dark arrows, all pointing to the irreversible silence of this moment...

Today I’m raking leaves. A few stray Eucalyptus, burnished by the late summer sun. They have slipped from their moorings in the stillness of the night. Unclasped and untethered, they simply took flight…

Held within the strong dark lines of rain-soaked beech, like the stained-glass window of a medieval cathedral, this place of shimmering blues and lucent greens is newborn…

He’s watching me, the gorilla. Resting on his side. Eyes open wide. He’s still. Too still. Languid and indolent, his long strong arm moves to scratch the occasional itch. His eyes look straight through me…