RICHARD WILLIAMSON Nature Trails November 4

I love to wander autumn woods and get away from chores, if only for a few minutes. There is so much to see. An ash key spins across the clouds and lands at my feet like a pioneer into new country. A sycamore leaf glides gently on its last buoyant movement with the air and settles comfortably to new life with the earth.

The dew has released scents of soil which give the nose a wonderful message that all is well with the ground and its preparation for the spring.

There are berries everywhere showing how successful nature has been once more. Black bryony has spiralled up the saplings of ash trees and hung fruit in soft bunches of scarlet. Bracken droops its dying leaves like the wings of golden pheasants.

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If it is a fine day I can see the chinks of blue through trees like broken Wedgewood china.

Images flood the senses, even as sounds and smells are being counted in as they have been for dozens of years.

What is that crackling noise out of sight behind the oaks? Only a wood pigeon walking among the leaves searching for acorns.

What is that sudden flight of arrows above the crowns? Only the first fieldfares hunting the woods for yew berries.

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There is a continual tapping and hammering as great tits smash beech mast for that sweet food inside.

I look at the ivy flowers clustered among glossy green leaves. Each globe is a galaxy, as complicated in its way as stars in space. They are opening into circles of gold flowers.

I could watch the life they attract as I might watch people in a pub and wonder how they fit into existence.

A wasp crawls greedily among the stamens for the last busy needs of its clan hid in some underground community.

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A red admiral flashes red and white and black in my face still in defiance of winter. It must find shelter soon or flee to warmer climes hundreds of miles south.

Dead men’s fingers reach up to new life from the rotted wood of beech trees killed in the hurricane. There are probably 1,000 species of fungi in this wood all clamouring for space to shed their spores before winter bangs the door shut. Even the violets have tried their luck with a few last blooms.

Fallow bucks groan with lust at their climax of summer life. The woods in autumn seethe with desires that are soon to be ended.

It is a mighty market place knowing time is running out. I must see it while I can. The minutes run into hours as I wander, not wanting it to end. But the chores remain. I must go back to the walls.