Notes from Westonbirt

Glory. sun shines through leaves creating a golden haze, like God glinting with a magnifyimg glass from on high. Spectrum of red yellow orange through to rust and gold leaves on just one branch, decorated like a golden challice on a byzantine altar. Clear, bright cold air enhances the scene, not a flutter on a breeze, no movement, as though permanently fixed in time. The leaves of gold and burnished red like crimson enamel,  their faces lifted towards the sun, stand proud and unaware of their photogenic beauty. The stir they cause, the human wonder in a arborial wonderland, the click of cameras, gasps of amazement, drawn breath with wonder. Children play hide n seek among the leaf-drop,  mums count, dads chase, granparents lean on sticks, eyes sheilded from the glare, too bright to handle, like an apparition of halo gold to dazzle the eyes. Smells of leaf mould entagled with damp earth, so English, so primordial, so pungent. A world to compare, cherry blossom time in japan, autumn glory in the english countryside, a similacrum of another country, recreated beauty to delight the Western eye.

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