The rain eases. Shoulders un-tense and breath comes sweeter. Down-turned faces rise towards pale pastel, broken sky.
Colour slowly drips back into the scene; subtle ochre's, fawns and earthy browns, soft layered greys, apologetic greens, jewel like yellow-golds and spangles of crystal and silver.
The robin begins to sing.
The wind shivers the water droplets from the wayside vegetation, and a sudden gust catches the tops of the trees, ridding them of their remaining leaves, which fly high, tumbling and twirling, spread across the sky in a wide swirling flock as they twist and turn in valiant attempt to resist the ever downward tug.
A blackbird's shrill alarm call pierces the quiet lull after the gust, its shadow-form darting across the path and vanishing into a mass of battered nettle stems and purple bramble thorn.
At the corner of the path, a plumb breasted wood pigeon, blue-bloomed like the sloes and wild plums, balances precariously in the glossy ivy, pulling keenly at the black-eyed berries. He watches me with a wary yellow-ringed eye and tumbles unceremoniously out of the climber, flapping laboriously and frantically, pitting his bulky body against the laws of physics.
The clouds have broken somewhat, taking form and shape, allowing a last glimmer of the day's brightness to lighten the sky before the hidden sun begins its slow sinking into evening.