I'm a photographer in the UK, wandering about with a camera that used to belong to my mum. It only sees the world in black and white infrared, no colour, just whispers and shadows. Each click of the shutter feels a bit like keeping her light alive, tucked between branches and beams of sun.

Infrared is a trickster. It takes the everyday and says, "Now watch this." Leaves turn into glowing lanterns, tree bark polishes itself into marble, shadows grow soft as velvet. A familiar footpath suddenly wears a mask, the woods becomes a stage, and I'm left wondering if I've stumbled into someone else's dream.

The trees are the real poets here. Patient, ghostly, and sometimes cheeky, leaning in just enough for the picture, then leaning back into silence. This collection is a kind of diary: mostly 2025, mostly me loitering among hedgerows, waiting for light and weather to agree on something.

Infrared reveals the woods as both familiar and otherworldly. Here, branches glow, paths soften, and silence hums with unseen radiance. These photographs invite us to pause, to look differently, and to remember that even the most ordinary places carry hidden light, waiting to be found.