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Poetry in alt text.

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Steep track slick with clag and last year’s leaves. Blackbirds echo chipping the woods. Onwards up the hill to the stone stile, Zig zag to hill brow then follow the wall to the second one. In autumn there’d be bone vaulted puffballs in the wet grass. In the tiny enclosure she broaches. Green hump and the maw of her false doorway A stump of votive candle and a bouquet of narcissi From the hip-flask secreted away in your layers of gortex You pour a generous libation Swig to keep the old ones company Trudge back down in the dark.
May 16, 2026 at 9:03 PM