She comes in the mornings when the clouds are faint and the sky is blushing pale blue. She weaves diamonds into dandelion seedheeds and writes on the grass with fungi.

Her voice is hard for human ears – conkers crashing from the horse chestnut trees. Her dress is bordered by a veil of vapour rising like noiseless smoke from every dewy grass stem.

I like to call her Autumn. She is the star of the wildland year. But we all know she does not linger for long.