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…