The Autumn sun filters through the trees and butterflies dance in its light. Leaves appear motionless until one, as though imitating the butterflies, flitters to the ground, feeling obliged to fall because today is the first of September.
Somewhere in the stillness of it all, birds call to one another and a squirrel bounds from branch to branch with comsummate ease.
Beyond the field a brook babbles because that is what it is supposed to do, making smooth the stones as it swirls around the corner it has carved out, leaving behind its ripples to prove that it had passed this way.
Close by in Salem graveyard lie Davies, Edwards, Howells and Williams, the slate headstones of their tombs at one with Nature, their wrought-iron surrounds leaning as though weakened as hosts to the ivy.
Incongruous obelisks of polished marble, products of more recent times, stand on the higher slope commanding an even better view of the landscape, as though in a theatre's more expensive seats.
Come the dusk and the woodland bats know that it is their time. They unhook themselves from daytime beams and flap about, their dark cloaks silhouetted against the opaline sky.
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