Swathes of moorland grit and heather, dusted in the rugged russet of a dry November day.
Waning branches wave skeins of yellowing leaves, the slender keys to a kingdom of expanse that has been unlocked just for us.
The cold clods of yesterday’s earth still shelter inside the whorls of my fingertips; grainy tributaries that carved out small hours of happiness in aimless togetherness.
A warm weight upon my back, my son is physically a part of me, his tiny arm a compass of discovery that points to skylarks overhead, eyes as wide as the low afternoon sun.
And my daughter steps out far ahead of us, a pinprick of noisy happiness on the horizon; her conversation casting carelessness into the cooling stone and peat beneath her feet.
A Seasoned Soul. 