the air bitter and stems brittle, the sea lawn
has lost its lustre, colour shifting from a
fine whisping green to a sprightly golden.
Late rains, coming down in a glass rush
have turned tracks to streams. Following
the Plym to its source, deep in the valley,
passed Evil Combe, I'm thwarted, the rain
hastening the flow to block the ford across
a bold tributary. Turning then, to pass along
the wrong valley, I feel hemmed in; the rain
imposing, steep slopes pressing down. An
oppressive landscape asserting it's will,
forcing me to use a fleeting, transient path,
presenting instability to hesitant footfalls.
Passing through in time, the valley opens
out onto a boggy catchment, source of the tributary but as impassable as the blocked
ford. Resigned, I set off up the slope, picking
a sensible direction, making reactionary
turns to trace an alignment to the deserted
tin mine and the passing track. Disconsolate, beaten, I descend, taking the straight route
from Eylsebarrow to the Scout Hut. The track
that's a stream, glass rush running in torrents,
forcing me back and forth, avoiding flows and
pools. In stages, through water sheets, the landscape peaks through, tempting but not
delivering until finally the rain peters, and the
air clears to a pinpoint sharpness. Across to
Sharpitor and the lowlands beyond, cloud
tendrils rise up, bright against the dooming
glare of distant downpours. I see moor and
pasture, chaos and order, shining bright
together, golden and green. Glowing. Glowing.
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