Autumn has come to Purbeck - the apple tree is leafless - storm fallen apples cover the lawn - strong winds stir the pines which border the churchyard - the box tomb is stained yellow with lichen -
A buzzard circles the church tower, high above the lead roof from which Nicky Bond abseiled, fearless and elfin - the London trains fly along the rails, shaking the level crossing gates - in my dreams, they become hooting serpentine beasts -
One Sunday afternoon, we visited Arne - we walked upon a rustling pelt of fallen leaves - grey squirrels shimmied up knotted oaks - there were waist high drifts of withered, faded, bracken - the leaves were just starting to lose their green life - horse chestnuts were scattered upon the dry earth - green spiky shells were split half open - I remembered mad games of conkers, shrill voices, dark playground asphalt -
A birch grove restored my spirits - I saw bright figures amongst the slender trees -
At Shipstall Point, I made my way along a long spit of ribbed sand - to my right, there was a salt marsh, with sinuous channels between banks of reed - to my left, I could see a tidal creek, now brimming with bright sea -
I stared at the patterns of the waves and the ridges in the sand - later, I watched the sharp points of the marram grass move in the wind -
On our way back to the car, we saw a young white doe, guileless and beautiful - I thought of years passing, whirling in the air, full of memory -
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