The leaves move against the sky, the soft yellow-green of spring. Their edges loop like a child’s handwriting, the story ever-changing as they meet and cross, lock together and swing free. Between them the silver-bright sky shows in chinks and stars.
For the most part, though, my eyes are filled with green, soft green, sweet green, the many-layered green of the leaves, the vivid green of the grass, the soft green scent of the ferns.
A green place; a soft place; a place of leaves, and the leaves are for healing.