It is 6.30 on a crisp autumn evening. The air, still warm despite chilly gusts of wind that announce the coming front of cold weather.
The rose evening light gives everything around me a dreamlike palpable quality, as if I were surrounded by marshmallows.
I walk. My eyes wander towards a virile tree in front of me. The branches, heavy with leaves, invite me closer. A single leaf stands out. It’s large. Stretched out like a man’s hand. It is a noble dark green colour. Through the middle of the leaf run veins of blood.
As the evening light shines through the leaf I see the blood haemorrhaging out into its fragile green flesh.
As if I hoped to save it from a certain death, I reach out and pick it, plucking it neatly with a small snap from the tree.
Today, on Putney Heath, a leaf died.