halftwo
Wird Batcher
The year's ebb shrinks damply under a monochrome sky, grey and dusky even at the short day's low peak. The rain gone except where it lies.
In the plantation bracken, browned and dead, still climbs head high amongst the pines. Vole holes pock the moss - dark sockets looking blindly through the mists.
And everywhere the needle of Goldcrests pierces the silence - thin filaments radiating from fir and bramble. They descend from full grown trees to saplings spaced amongst billberry and heather, tiny, golden-capped, feet dipped in custard, flicking, disappearing into evergreens.
A Coal tit, silent, picks at twigs. A Treecreeper wriggles up a rugged trunk, silvery belly shining in the dark of the forest.
Out among the stone-walled fields a Fieldfare flies to perch, chacking softly. Mistle thrushes keep company and a just-fed Kestrel glides down to share the perch, crop bulging.
As the day, hardly started, begins its sink to long ending, the wall-perched birds sit, as if almost stone themselves.
In the plantation bracken, browned and dead, still climbs head high amongst the pines. Vole holes pock the moss - dark sockets looking blindly through the mists.
And everywhere the needle of Goldcrests pierces the silence - thin filaments radiating from fir and bramble. They descend from full grown trees to saplings spaced amongst billberry and heather, tiny, golden-capped, feet dipped in custard, flicking, disappearing into evergreens.
A Coal tit, silent, picks at twigs. A Treecreeper wriggles up a rugged trunk, silvery belly shining in the dark of the forest.
Out among the stone-walled fields a Fieldfare flies to perch, chacking softly. Mistle thrushes keep company and a just-fed Kestrel glides down to share the perch, crop bulging.
As the day, hardly started, begins its sink to long ending, the wall-perched birds sit, as if almost stone themselves.
