Senses

20 November 2005

It doesn’t matter how often I go for a walk, there’s always something new to assault my senses: the cold, cold iron gates; nature’s unexpected gift of a pheasant’s feather in the lane; rotting apples hidden in the grass; the first icy puddles of winter crunching underfoot; the smell of someone’s dinner escaping from their kitchen window; frosty sheep droppings; the heaviness of my boots, caked in inches of mud; the smoke of a bonfire; the sound of a solitary leaf skittering between the branches as it falls; a dog being called to heel; biplanes fut-futting overhead; turning to find the sunset behind you as dusk falls in the orchard.