Nemophilist (noun): A person who loves or is fond of woods and forests, a haunter of the woods.

London is not renowned for spring weather or an abundance of nature, but when a craving for wilderness slaps one in the face, an escape needs to be found.

We found it in Richmond Park.

2500 acres of open woodland is a powerful antidote to the metropolis.

My friend Matt and I spent a day there, shooting portraits and seeking signs of Spring.



Gold sweetness of leaves entered our veins as we dreamt light’s time away.



Fog sat heavy in the morning but was burnt off by the sun. Rays of light moved across the landscape – over trees, grass, fur, feather, skin and stone.




Draw up my soul like the nourishment in your roots. Bring me together and breathe me out, back into the sky. Blind in the late sun, happiness seeps.



Wander the wildness, break your compass, get lost.



King of the Woods – a friendly monarch.



A mirror to another world, water sits, keeping sentry.



Distance changes when you tackle the world on foot. The earth is huge, unflinching as you traverse miles of it’s skin with ever weary legs. In the woods you are removed, tranquil, trudging. Trees are indistinguishable yet unique, bends in the path mean less. It doesn’t matter that you’re lost, just breathing, moving forward.



Wine in the park is not a bad idea.



We bend to inhale the gathered flowers. A day otherwise grey, love is in the details.



Life’s disorienting scale does not distort this moment. Let us walk this hour, where worries have no power.




Unmoving like the trees we sink our roots, reflecting light from a source within, stable and consistent.




Shadows westward melt into dusk as it drapes from the sky, a curtain smothering the harshest light.



Cold wind races through long grass, ripples become a heaving ocean.



In the space between love and sleep we mourn our prisons. Life transforms until what is seen becomes unseen.




We are naturally wild animals, the vastness of nature humbles to bring joy.





Weak sun freckles bark as gusts filter through the canopy, ruffling our hair.



Each changing season brings it’s own abundance.



Snails paint the earth silver, crows flit about with corrosive glances. Though I am silent, there is singing around me, my witness the empty sky.





Promises of Spring, a taste of days to come.

Woods are places of loss and confusion, opportunity and humility.

I am a nemophilist. 



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