A quarrel, between grass and gorse, At the edge of an emaciated wood. What does the land know? A dead lake rising up on a wasted field. That pungent water, its surface suddenly broken. The scorched circle where a fire once licked. Torn clothes in the tree. A boot forgotten - Or abandoned in retreat. The earth there, stained with memory, Where deep roots go undisturbed. I saw a figure against the sky. A watcher on the crest of the earthen wave. He was there and gone again. A shepherd fearing for his flock? Or more likely fear itself, rational and cold. And I frightened a bird in the long grass. Out of the undertow it flew, alarmed. The gate I had taken led nowhere. Just more withering, wasting ways, to find myself lost on the hill. An old camp below the graves. Like Victorian stones, piled in. Half collapsed and all askew. Those broken, aching teeth, inside an open and waiting mouth. I won’t return to the hill. I have seen it all and sensed the dread. At a certain pitch, along a certain path, I have seen time collapse, Into the crumbling, hateful earth.