Birdsong weaves itself between the beats as I don my headphones and start walking.

A giant maple arches its branches towards the sky, its leaves glow green against the blue. Sprinkled between are the beginnings of reds and yellows.

A little further.

Through the little patch of forest. The air is cooler here, and damp. Dead leaves crunching underfoot. Many are still fresh and golden, not trodden down into the soggy, compost-scented mush they will soon become.

A promise of that scent hangs in the air.

The lawn ahead is soaked with sunlight, incandescent against the gloom. Leaves flutter from the trees, flecks of golden fire as they catch the sunlight. Twirling. Falling.

I stop to pick up the first whole conker I have seen this year. Its fellows lie nearby, floury corpses mashed into the tarmac of the road. I turn it over and over, its greasy brown skin pockmarked and pitted with marks of lighter brown where it struck the road. Grains of sand hide an otherwise perfect smoothness.

I brush them away, flicking my fingers and rubbing them together to remove the grit, enjoying that smoothness, the place where the texture changes, becomes drier and rougher and white.

I pocket it. My feet beat the pavement in time to “Let’s Dance” from Lady Gaga.

Roses, death-defying, a bold display of crumpling petals that still glow a translucent, almost supernatural pink.

Other roses long gone without a trace, their branches heavy with rose hips.

I stop by a butterfly bush. What’s left of its panicles is darkened and dry, dashed here and there with some last specks of purple. A butterfly alights, wings working.

It flits momentarily harder as my shadow falls across it, stays put, uncertain, the next movement of mine sends it tumbling away all a-flutter, all powdered paper wings and soft, soft hairs.

I brush my hands along a bush in passing. Leaves resisting their death, clinging to their branches like stubborn old men to knobbly walking sticks. Tough, hardened, no memory remaining of the soft green fuzz, the delicate growth of spring that dreamed of life.

A stray cobweb tickles my nose. I sneeze.

A tiny yellow leaf, spinning, spinning, trapped in the strands of a web.

A fat spider. Watching. Waiting.

Nature at once dying and full of colour. Naked branches scratch the sky. Late bloomers brighten the roadside, a nearby bush hangs heavy with ripe red berries.

A strange time. Not summer. Not yet autumn.

The watered down sun warms the hazy air.

Sweat beads on my skin beneath my jumper, without it I know I’d be bordering on too cold.

My heart clenches.

I want to capture every single instant of this between, this beginning and this ending, this dying, this becoming.

My heart would explode if I could.

I smirk. Nod my head in time to the music. Winter is coming.

The year is trapped somewhere between the seasons.

I feel as if I’m stepping out on the other side.


Hi, I’m Ffion. Welcome to my little writing playground.

Right now, it feels like that “Between” stage I’ve been stuck in for quite some time is finally becoming something new.

Not quite yet a writer.

No longer not a writer.

I started this blog in order to explore personal writing projects, hone my writing skills, muse about life and creativity and just have fun.

You can also find me over on Instagram, where I post about monsters, tea, books and travelling.

Join me for a chat over a cup of tea?

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