It was autumn. He was walking up towards the Beacon. He came to an old, tight copse of trees. Around it everywhere there were leaves.
He loved the leaves, their colours, the heaps and the sound and feel of walking through them. He trudged on, striking his feet firmly into the ground. The leaves rose around him in a green, brown, gold cloud.
Something chinked beneath his feet. He struck again, looked down. There was something dark and metallic moving. He moved his foot again, more cautiously. Then he bent down and picked up a dirty, round thing. It was a coin. There were more.
They must have been disturbed by the rains, by the winds and by the constant yearly thudding of young men’s boots through the leaf heaps.
He spat on the coin, rubbed it and it began to shine. It was gold.