Ice and wind, flood and fire have borne down on this land of mine. Ridges, valleys, tors and fells, formed by nature’s path through time.
I live where Romans built their camps and kept their watch. I walk where Saxons ground their corn and kept their stock. I climb where early man once kept his dead in chambers dug with hands and pick, and piled up rock to shape his gods and bring good luck.
A white horse carved in chalk stands guard on distant downs viewed from my study window. There’s pleasure in distraction as I write, past merging in the present light.
In spring, lambs skitter round the low lands green, in summer months strange circles form in fields of corn, man-made or magic still debated over beer and crisps. Now church bells toll and foxes cry, and skateboards thud on paving stone. Scavenging gulls plume up from refuse tips and lorries rumble through my town, to shake the bones of Wiltshire folk.
I’ll pen another sonnet, haiku, rhyme, to please the ear and eye, to offer to the spirits of another time. The cat flap sounds and Charlie’s home – dropping his votive offering in my shoe. It’s half a mouse this time, its entrails hanging out. I cannot read the casting of his runes.