Wind-swept, East of England skies. Shapeshifting clouds. Swirls of white puff that stretch into mountains, curl into castles, swell into dragons, rise into chariots, then metamorphose into angels. Skies mottled with lead-grey, steel-grey, velvet grey with undertones of purple, shades of pink, hints of blue and glints of gold. Ever-changing skies. Skies so big, they come all the way down to your feet.
Elms that rise proud against the sky, copper beeches that glow in the afternoon sun, weeping willows swaying by the river, oaks – hundred of years old – that stand strong against the hurricanes. Trees that have witnessed generations parade before them. Trees with stories full of magic to tell, if you would listen.
Winds that howl in the night, winds that rattle wooden window frames, gales that push against you as you struggle to walk up the street. Winds that tear off scaffoldings. Passionate, exhilarating winds that stir your soul.
The river that rushes beneath your favourite bridge. The bridge that overhears your secrets you whisper to the river. The river, that washes away your worries and to which you confide your dreams.
Autumns of scarlet, ocher and gold. Springs bursting white pink and white blossoms.
Contrasts. Passion. Change. Light. Colour.