Oasis

In the years that I have lived in this part of London, my local patch of common, just 5 minutes walk from my home, has been a principal point of reference. I try and visit at least once a week to re-charge amidst the solid, reassuring oak trees and to connect with the seasonal changes; just now the expanses of grass and scrubland are framed by the yellow, russet, green and red tones of the autumn leaves, sometimes against a background of the bluest of blue skies.

More than in many open spaces in the metropolis, the powers that be have allowed some pockets of relative wilderness to remain here; in certain spots, in spite of the proximity of road, rail and suburban sprawl, you can imagine yourself far away from the city.

Noted at various times: herons motionless by the ponds; ducks nesting; squirrels chasing each other through the oak trees; horses and riders; silver birches with branches tossing to and fro in the wind; rustling, leafy trails through the woods; acorns crunching underfoot; cow parsley in summer; a grove of willows; blackberries ripening; glowing red-orange rose hips entwined with old man's beard; the common at sunrise covered in snow, frozen and silent; and once, I think, a kestrel.

I never tire of it.