Saturday, May 16, 2009

Cross the lower meadow and where four fields meet at the rise of the mount, three mixed hedges have grown tall and hollow around the fences. Mount the stile, feeling the rub of its smooth hand-oiled post as you step over, off and up to a higher bank; ducking into the hollow thicket of the bower. The thorny passage, leading up several rough-cut dirt steps contains a tangled history: fragments of weathered oak posts and split rails pinned with short twists of old and broken, rust-brown barbed wire; threaded and stapled with new. Pause to hide in the airy cage then feel a compression of intensity as you stoop under the last slim branches and out to face open skies that rise above the far crest of the upper meadow.

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