There is a time a site becomes a space:
something to do with hung doors,
working electrics, flushing toilets-
the whole greater than the sum-
and I’m almost there.
Looking into the lit interior
I can see the time when this studio
will welcome new guests to the farm.
So it’s 7
before I’m done,
the light is fading under grey cloud,
but the wind is warm,
from the south.
The Nog and I head out in the gloaming,
the changeover time,
when senses sharpen.
A woodcocks lifts from the bracken
with a single muffled clap of wings.
A dozen hind stand watching our approach,
low-down the hill:
perhaps drawn by the groans and roars
of the rutting stag across the river.
This road is old,
and ageing as the light fades:
there is a watchtower here,
set on the prominence of a morraine,
surveying those approaching
a people’s domain.
I turn below the bank
and start to climb
after the hinds.