Frost

This morning, pictured. I experience life's spiritual in Richmond Park on my walk - the false dawn presents a frozen tundra as frost covers everything including the tall reeds - it makes me think of a BW negative. Trees are autumnal orange and yellow and while there is the dead and dying yet remain green leaves and grass for an unusual backshade. The contrasts are resplendent in the misty fog and there she comes - the hazy, deathly sun over the horizon, one side unbroken treeline, the other dotted with Corbusier towers sharp and angular. My moment of other-wordly occurs at Roehampton Gate when I pass within 15 feet of a stock-still buck whose antlers must reach six or seven feet a side; he follows me with his eyes while puffs of raw air shoot from his nostrils. On the other side of the toe path: two youngsters butt heads (the only sounds this morning) and farther still their heard of females. From Monday, as every first Monday of November, the park closes from early dusk until dawn for the culling which lasts six weeks.