We were born into the no more The no more warm smell of a cattle shed my grandfather's hands, worn and beaten became withered and pale, his buckets empty fields aching with emptiness A stag runs into the forest, along the hedge and into the shadow of branches, carrying with it the trace of a memory. Time and nature have shaped the Forest of Dean - and the people who call it home. Always changing, this landscape carries the marks of every generation. Steeped in the scent of moss, Rose Day's debut collection is both a mourning and a celebration of the land, culture and history of the Vorest