Late summer days last longest up on the rise of hill. Up there against the sky, where the heat of the day vents. Climb steps made from wild flowers names; toadflax, knapweed, yarrow, wild parsnip, breath just molecules in all that wide air. Gaze, small voiced thought; “small wonder then I don’t see the hare more often than not.”
August sun has hardly a comparison all the year long, a golden clarity largely unsurpassed, that throws all the view a glowing beauty. It weaves between each stubble stalk, sending the field rows running molten off the flank of hill. The toy-town-map of the coastal plane lays all picked out, metalled at the edge of land by aqueous colour. The roof of the world and the edge of land. Model-brick buildings and stitched-in woods, a chalk ribbon of path a rib showing through pelt of sheared fields.
Late summer days last longest up on the rise of hill, until we chase the sun back down into the valley, the wood owls calls conjuring the dark from the seed of our shadows.