Spring Green: Fresh light beneath the canopy
Silverstone, early April. Ruby and I set out just after sunrise, walking the familiar woodland trail. I’d brought my camera—something about the stillness felt worth holding onto. The green was just starting to show, soft and new, and the morning light gave it a kind of quiet confidence.
This photograph was taken from one of my favourite spots, where the path bends and the trees open just enough to let the light pour in. It’s a place I return to often, not just for the view but for the feeling it offers—of space, of rhythm, of something quietly unfolding.
The trees here are tall and moss-covered, their trunks wrapped in ivy and early leaf buds. The ground is carpeted in fresh undergrowth, still damp from the morning dew. Sunlight filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows and illuminating the first hints of spring. There’s a softness to it all—the kind that makes you pause, breathe, and notice.
Ruby was just ahead, nose to the ground, tail gently wagging. Her presence threads through these walks, grounding the moment in companionship and routine. I often think she senses the shift in seasons before I do—her pace changes, her attention sharpens.
This image holds the quiet promise of spring. Not the full bloom, not the riot of colour—but the beginning. The green that’s still tentative, the light that’s still low. It’s a reminder that change doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives in the hush of morning, in the bend of a path, in the way the trees lean just so.
Silverstone, early April. Ruby and I set out just after sunrise, walking the familiar woodland trail. I’d brought my camera—something about the stillness felt worth holding onto. The green was just starting to show, soft and new, and the morning light gave it a kind of quiet confidence.
This photograph was taken from one of my favourite spots, where the path bends and the trees open just enough to let the light pour in. It’s a place I return to often, not just for the view but for the feeling it offers—of space, of rhythm, of something quietly unfolding.
The trees here are tall and moss-covered, their trunks wrapped in ivy and early leaf buds. The ground is carpeted in fresh undergrowth, still damp from the morning dew. Sunlight filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows and illuminating the first hints of spring. There’s a softness to it all—the kind that makes you pause, breathe, and notice.
Ruby was just ahead, nose to the ground, tail gently wagging. Her presence threads through these walks, grounding the moment in companionship and routine. I often think she senses the shift in seasons before I do—her pace changes, her attention sharpens.
This image holds the quiet promise of spring. Not the full bloom, not the riot of colour—but the beginning. The green that’s still tentative, the light that’s still low. It’s a reminder that change doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives in the hush of morning, in the bend of a path, in the way the trees lean just so.