Late Winter’s afternoon light gleams, it does not shine or glow but scatters faint through bare, nubile branches, eager with buds.
Across the vale, signs of life are clothed in the mist of distance. Dancing vapours from the farmer’s hose, empty trains, transparent snakeskin grey, rattle, like self-important skeletons across the halflit hills.
Between the stone of here and mystical distance, gulls wheel and a chill wind gusts. And in the garden where I kneel, busy finches mutter in the evergreen darkness.