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for as i walked in the moors this week she showered me with mists, orange bracken, the colour of dirty fire, flattened by berries. red red berries, winter berries, berries not for human mouths. the colour of snow white's lips. the blood of that against the orange bracken. and beneath my feet the strange green of autumn. bright and moon-glowing beneath the fog. luminescence without light. the extraordinary planets of green, staring upwards like the crone's eyes, getting brighter in the darker days. all the evergreen amongst the sleeping trees, the valleys of delicate fires, burning hazily through the mists, like a dream that fades with looking, like a japanese print, an imagined scarf. Everything is at once distant, at once damp, everything is met in your nose. The shock of living a memory every year, of not expecting it, of waiting for it to be there. the gorgeous smells of death, of sleep, of mud. And i want to die, I want to dance, I want to walk silently on my own, and then again be blown away with all my leaves, to join the family, to smile. It is time for collecting, and for setting free. She is here, but she will soon be gone.