I'm noticing that despite harsh frosts and whipping winds, a few leaves are clinging on to their parent trees along the banks of Hebden Water. A far cry from the vigour of summer and the glory of Autumn these tortured survivors are a pierced and twisted remnant of last year. I've enjoyed observing them closely and taking their photographs. They have an insectoid quality that I like and I imagine could lead to some interesting drawings. And of course they bring to mind Shakespeare's sonnet 73 with its lines...
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
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