Tuesday, 12 June 2012
I have been camping in some industrial land overgrown with dock, sorrel, bracken and gorse; it’s been left empty so long that its cleared spaces - once home to big worksheds of I hope not too chemical a nature - have become nature reserve. Bullrushes in machinery extraction pit, owls on the remaining gantry sentinel and deer on the line of brown young growth.
Each morning and evening I remind myself that they are not always there. And then there they are again.
The by-pass runs close and headlights keep me company in the late evening when it finally gets dark. In the morning it is speckled with wild lupins and a big red buzzard does its round or sits in a carved out shape on a fence post.
Then rush hour changes everything.
The deer tried to cross at this time and with inches to spare jumped and scrambled through the lupins to the otherside farmland.
The buzzard doesn't care. It is always there. Looking. Like me.