In the forest before dawn there is a kind of magic.

If you stop and hold your breath, the smallest of movements reveals a soft stream of cowslips, bubbling between stick and stone. Winding their way down into the darker creases of the forest, lighting the way as they go.

The soil rich in minerals after the decay of winter gives rise to an effusion of vivid, violet lunaria. The colours even more surprising in the hushed moments of pre-dawn.

Then a thrush, high up in the cherry blossom, sings away the last of the half-light and that deep, meditative breath dissipates with the shadows between the trees.