Big blue sky
Golden, Tate & Lyle, sunlight
The farmer, with his muck-spreader
Has been here before me
To the top of the hill
Long shadows, dry stone walls
A caravan in a cold cold field
Down the hill
Round the corner
To see that long stretch of water
To the maker of puddings and cakes
Stones, and walls, and geometric columns
He strolls past fire pits with frozen fingers
Talks of snow and ice, beside expectant geese
