Sensing the sweet light over the land I chose to forgo the early morning coffee choosing to be awakened by morning glory who called with her crisp cold voice, a mantra of connection. Ever lightening layers of landscape folded beneath a clear white sky, a new canvas that would soon be clothed in gradients of blue.
In the jaws of Leadmine Valley ephemeral mists wove their night stories around the mossed limbs of oak as birch held her buds to the dawn. A prayer to the new day.
A solitary lapwing flapped his moth dance over wife-blond moorlands, keeping time with the salutations of a lone mistle thrush who wore the flight of Anglezarke’s first house martin as a halo.