Cleared most of the work I wanted to clear this morning; took a coffee-hit and found meself some human company, hung out in my usual haunts for a while; did my shit, then found myself climbin' that old hill. An unspoken pact with myself.
Surveying storm-damage and wind collapse; weighing up the whorls and the knots. The speckled bark; the creased wooden skin of the trees, wrinkled, like the legs of elephants, dessicated and mock-ancient; sun-bleached grey. Hands torn by brambles - Natures little fish-hooks; mammal-traps - accumulating fleshy wounds, rips between my fingers. I feel them stretch now as I type. Barbed-wire labyrinths, shattered trees, shredded hedgerows, a child's shoe wedged in the bole of a hawthorn. At the crest: a churned-up plateau of white chocolate-coloured clay. Hay-furred dung mounds.
A sudden, unexpected rabbit-chase though a nearby thicket made me jump: for a moment, I unknew all that I know; thought something unknown - something awful - was racing towards me, low to the ground, its snout locked onto my scent, zigzagging its way through a dense mass of dried-up brambles: some small but terrifyingly invisible predator that had emerged from its hellish warren and was charging me like a Riami-cam on its dolly-track, crashing through the undergrowth: some vile centipedal dryad that only exists in my head. Something from a mid-60's episode of The Avengers.
I was surprised there was so much water. From a distance it looked like a lake.