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I felt like I walked to the veil today, to the edge of a season and into the mist of the next. The open heath was hot with a beating midday sun, all around me the ground came to life with thousands upon thousands of wings. Some belonging to honeybees, busy and loud. Others belonged to the quiet meander of butterflies and some held the heavy bodies of fluff filled bumbles. The ground was painted with the purple of devils bit scabious, the reason for all this life and these many thousand wings. Then I stepped out of the heath and into the woodland where the bewitching finger sculptures of shaggy ink caps begin to grow and a breeze unfelt in the open heath now pirouettes the leaves of silver birch, covering the ground that smells ripe and rich with the scent of a new season. We are so used to the change, so expectant but it is always just a matter of moments before one tips into the next. 
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