The Heath

The ravens cronked and croaked, trying to cough up untruths from their feather cloaked throat. Two of them slid amongst the misty clouds until they became shrouded by treetops.
I found this spot beneath a small oak where the ground is high and the branches low so that I feel invisible to the world, just as I like it. I am cushioned by hair like grass and enveloped by fading bracken that's caught the autumn sickness, its leaves pot marked like rotten apple skin.
Flocks of finches come and go, blooming into the sky on so many wings. I am so enchanted by the heath, a landscape that wears its seasonal faces with pride. Overcome with thorn blossom in spring, brightly passionate with heather in the summer and golden kissed in autumn. My favourite though is winter when the thorns stand awkward and gnarled in the most open parts, they shoot their branches in all directions like pin sharp fish bones into a greying sky.​ Those days will not be far away now but it's nice to be able to sit beneath the oak whilst I still can, when winters claws have not yet ripped the heath bare.