It was cold and my hands were numb. The pencil was a sick thing. Blunt, sharp. lead broken here and there. It was a fractured implement. The ground was damp and there were few insects. This was Podzol territory. Hard baked by fire soil horizon. Baked fucking hard. Fire swept by here. It was harsh heat redolent. I sketched and concentrated. Each blade of grass, the Bilberry, the Calluna vulgaris. Heated moon power. Soaked into the hard baked soil.

Sketch and record while the Cannock Chase aura baked you solid too. There were Ghosts. I saw them out of the corner of my eye. They didn’t ‘flit’ they just flickered in and out. Lines of though and lines of thin lead scratch the paper and make rodent noises. Burrowing through the paper in parts where it was wet from the rain that fell. The pencil was getting smaller, retreating back into itself. Not brave and sharp but blunt often and retired. The lead smeared. The graphite was fearful of the marks it was making. There was a Stag nearby, I could smell it as it smelled me. There was no one here of course because the weather was sick and wet. My arse damp. The rain catching in the fold of my coat. Marks made and laughter gone. Scratch the image and record it. The battle scenes of the ecology. The spires of fractured Spruce, the dealings of the grasses underneath them. The want of the Moss.

Treetops as erect spears. Battle smashed from Machinery. The Battle is endless here, for space, soil and light, for water, for area where roots may stretch out for sustenance. The light subtle through the cloud. Sketch and draw while you shiver. While you stretch. A sound, a branch snapping underfoot and birds erupt from the Heather. Flying to my left. Low and relaxed. Soft flight. Eternities greyscale drama. There is no place to flee as yet. Pencils move. Things in the Grass move. I sit still, a Bell rings.

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