Woodland in September.

It had been an interesting day popping into Beverley after walking George and briefly joining the 'Global Crisis Strike' demonstration outside the County Hall offices. The main protest was to be in the afternoon when school children would be coming. After doing some things in the town I stopped on my way home to join the now, loud, protesting group of school children and adults. The children had made some impressive banners and were very passionate in their feelings about the planet and their inheritance. Very moving.

I decided to go home and take George to Burton Bushes, the ancient woodland on the outskirts of Beverley. I carried my painting equipment and let George off, to run and explore though he never went too far from me as I walked to my location.

The September sun lights up
 patches of growing plants,
(in the spring this area is covered with garlic)
Illuminating translucent beech leaves,
Which intelligently articulate,
To catch life giving rays,
On horizontal south facing branches.
Light pierces the canopy,
Animating the pathway with dancing light.
Early fall, spots the ground with
Orange decay,
As autumn inevitably progresses,
Woods sleep.

A man approaches with an elderly small dog and I put George on his lead, only to be told that his dog was quiet and friendly, so I let George free, and sure enough acquaintance with each other, and each others' smells was duly made. In the distance I hear children's excited voices, but the wood is so dense no one can be seen. Then, a glimpse of distant movement, a child emerges, then two dogs, then a mother and father and, I think two more children. They generously comment on the picture as they pass, disappearing again, into the thick wood. George begins barking loudly, he wants me to throw a stick. To do so, I have to stop painting and walk around looking for a stick. I pick up a broken branch. it turns out to be very old and  light and breaks immediately, so I keep looking.
I'm reminded of the old joke about the unsuitability of a young woman's prospective lover.
When seeking advice
from an elderly sage like, spinster,
the young woman is told,

"To be very careful with men",
and continues saying
"It is like walking through a wood."

The young woman asks her what does she mean,
Walking through a wood? 

Whereupon the wise old spinster 
( who had had some bad experience herself ...perhaps?)
replies.....
" it's like walking through a wood....
you go..... through the wood,
and......... through the wood....
and at the end there is.....
a crooked twig"

The young woman is bemused,
She sighs...
Then asks "Yes, but what do you mean?"
But the elderly spinster has gone.

I find George a stout branch and he bounces through the low vegetation happily retrieving the branch before charging back with it, protruding from either side of his mouth, straight at me. I have to be very nimble to avoid being hit.

Happy times.
Video of the painting here.