Empty landscape
Wind turbines rolling lazy in front of layered sky.
Alto stratus, rainbowed crystals and morning mists retreating to the river where smoothed rocks chatter and turn.
Stretched shadows from black bales, winter feed for cattle still cropping, hoof-deep in mud by the trough, flicking flies from rumps.
That gate, its weary post considering conceding to leaning livestock.
Beyond, untidy conifer ranks: fallen soldiers a palace of scurrying and creeping.
The old barn’s last ancient truss – a skeleton roof; elsewhere, in a council office expensive plans are unrolled, debated. Conversion – to triple-glazed investment or pile of walls in this quiet place.
