The land offers up its brittle cattle, its ashes, vetches, lichens, rocky ledges, meadows sweetly rolling down to the briny. Swaying panoramic fieldscapes, summer dust and a buzzard sails over, sharp and alert in feathery consciousness. Sycamores sculpted, calfling milling, pines green and blue. Woodsmoke scenting the air with mellow nostalgia. A furlong furrows the brow of the Earth. The great moor, a swampy lost jungle of goat-willow, sedges, rushes, sundews and methane. Dragonflies lurk; whorl; dance; buzz; turn; glint; spin; sparkle; glimmer and zoom – adrift adrowze on this sunny afternoon. Idhyowek chimmblys lost in the sunshine and nameless weeds resplendent in little valleys lost to man. And everywhere Babylon’s grey tentacles threaten my green land. Willowherb hints at flinty paths, Scotts pines and summer camps in canvas as cumulous rolls out the sky. Gaunt gorse crags, heather and peat. Menhirs mumble secrets of Arthur’s sleep. Ivy-clad gothick – the larches crumble in the sun. Tin-roofs rattle in rain, rousing dreamers to ozone-scented rainmurk. Soilcreep ripples as acorns fatten; lurking futurity of hearty solidity. Stag-headed elders, proud and noble, gaunt, stark, stripped of tannin bark wave brittle limbs through sun and dark. Golden blazing corn afar hints at a bright glazed future. Dandelion parachutes, golden poplars, all is agrow in Albion’s sidereal slumber.