The trees are waiting. I watch one leaf fall, it has some weight to it and turns as it does. Each sound vibrates. An unhurried bee avoids me on its’ way to the ivy. The scutter squirrel I’d seen traversing the beech with stealthy grace and dropping clumsy through the conifer, is now visiting the oaks causing avian alarm.

From my crouch stone cold seat there is just enough subdued light on the swell of the road to see last years leaves mushed into the tarmac.

I cross the lane to the house and garden where twelve more learner writers wonder at roses and poke in the fridge, finding words to describe scientific reason or emotional response.

We assemble to share what we’ve written, and hear each word as the author intended – with spirit and cadence. I will remember each voice, rich in life, and cherish the week when we made this gentle journey of such kindness.

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