Cliffs,Wind,Orkney.

Salt clouded glasses filter an easterly clyping wind, trembles islands of barely blooming sea pinks. Veinous blue gulleys of clay slip down to the sea. A lapwing tumbles to the ground, spooking a curlew to flight, its long curved beak darning pieces of sky, mending the torn light of Spring. May retreats to the margins. I lean into the wind and find myself at a curious angle.

The rhythm of walking.

Skylark, yellowhammer, chiff chaff in the woods.

Skylark, yellowhammer, chiff chaff in the woods.

Stop. Draw.

Hawthorn.

Get going.

Gorse scent, mole hills, buzzard on the hill.

Gorse scent, mole hills, buzzard on the hill.