Cissbury Ring

Wind blowing through me, cold at first, but I get used to it and then it’s like blowing through my soul, like my ribcage is a harp, and the wind blow blow blows through.

Such big mushrooms, parasol mushrooms, pale creamy colour and darker brown patterns of scales and spots on them and the stems like snake scales, chunky and like little parasols, good shelter for a small creature or many small folk. 

Gorse bushes everywhere, crouching low to the ground, prickly, protecting smaller plants and flowers – or maybe just overpowering them. 

Down a path through the woods, with such a complex pattern of tree roots. I imagine the tree roots are a maze, if you shrink down and follow them round, you will find hidden corners, with small pockets of energy that take you to different places…

Short green grass nibbled by sheep and ponies, tiny tiny flowers, like miniature versions of garden flowers. 

The land rises and falls, in some directions you can see distant hills, or the sea with the sun shining on it and making it sparkle. Trees nestle into folds of the land. Wind blows branches and rustles autumn leaves which are still clinging to the twigs. Tree limbs creak and sigh as they are bent in the wind. 

A few late blackberries are still a deep red, but most of them have gone, eaten by birds or starting to dry up or rot away, feeding the earth. The land is chalk and flint and soil.

On a hill in the distance, the clouds clear for a few moments and sun shines, making it glow briefly. If I stand still and close my eyes for a bit, I can feel the land breathing. And if I look carefully through half-closed eyes at the curves and folds of land, I can imagine reaching out and running my hands over them, fingers tracing the delicate chalk paths. It could be like a giant embroidery, with the dots of white sheep as little knots of thread, the green turf made of felt.