I come late to the Glen and notice the cement rectangles by the football pitch echoing the goals was this a place there used to be a bench I wonder there is a smaller sqaure nearby with a shorn rebar, possible a bin I gather. the sun is setting filling a deep red v to the west, I pass the yeti dwellings formed by old man’s beard over some kind of shrub, N suggested they were empty cribs at Christmas time, but now more than ever they look like creature palaces.
trees are becoming silhouettes and the bats are here flitting and darting about in ones by the midgy footpath near the whitstripe wall (and the dirty drain) and the sound of water gushing through hollow drains drowns or discourages the birdsong I’d been hearing till now