Shadow flow.

Heather scent drifts in a purple breeze beneath cool clouds and stays poised around sunlit pools.
Cool air from the west rises up the valley side hitting the roof of my mouth as cloud shadows glide across walls and woods in a peaceful seamless drift.
Nearby, hornets on high octane nectar blister round wall tops too hot to touch.


Burnt Heather

Bare earth revealed, charred bones contorted and brittle. The old gives to the new in a sacrifice of release and the charnel grounds of bodies left out - skeletons drying, casting no shadow of protection into the birthing of young shoots of delicate heather green, once again attracting grouse to feed chicks and sheep to fertilise the land into tomorrow’s landscape.

Such is the good husbandry of the soil. Flocks to market, herds to slaughter, birds to the gun, each drawing a weary sigh once again after the familiar pride of breed, quality of product and satisfaction of harvest home are felt. But the fields are empty, sheds left with last strewn hay for the morning feed, and guns laid aside until next year. Silence is the fallow of the farmer’s cycle, when burning the heather aligns him to his own bones returning to earth.