There are stories of a place where the leaves dance.
In the shadow of scarps, where the earth did part.
Dance to the melody of the autumn winds. And dance to the rhythm of the waning season.
A joyful farewell to the passing year.
When the days grow shorter and shadows fall upon a decaying world, the leaves prepare for their endmost roundel.
Exalted on their thrones, ever aware of their ephemerality, they linger in anticipation of their grandest spectacle.
By the thousands they wait. Patiently.
And then, lured by a gentle breeze rustling through the canopy, one by one, they leap.
Fearless. And free.
As the forest weeps, they journey towards their perennial slumber.
Like whirling dervishes, clothed in the fiery colours of autumn, they twist and twirl, and veer and swirl past limpid springs and earthen paths, by ivy fields and verdant swaths, as they tumble to the biding ground below.
In glen and dale they float, ever onwards, towards their mutual destiny.
It is a mesmerising ode to the passage of season. An opulent display of natural sublimity.
On ancient steps and dampened soil, at last they come to rest.
Lost in their extravagant performance, they finally lay down and cloak the forest floor under a flamboyant blanket. A sombre conclusion to this autumnal inferno.
Beneath bare branch and withered strand, a fleeting glimpse of their fading existence.
When the gales whisper of darkness and frost, before stillness shrouds the land, there is a place where the leaves dance.
Yonder in Vikos, where the earth did part.