There is light coming from the Glen as I pass through Sunview East
I skim the birch and the hawthorn at the entrance instead of curving down to the Glen I go straight on walking the perimeter by the Resource Centre, at the far end of the gorse’s ledge, where last year I heard the dry pods popping for the first time in the sun, I see there is more waste heaped up, barrowed in, this time it’s garden stuff offloaded just on the wrong side of the fence, on top of the place where last I saw the turquoise paint and the rubble of dumped building debris, I cannot help being offended by the way the Glen is a dumping ground at every edge.
Coming back I see an enormous keyhole form in the ground, a dog has been here, dug and paddled back. I take a closer look and there is the most tender thing inside, a bird gently lying in rest. I remember that childhood book “who killed cock robin? The image of the bird on its back never failed to leave me sad.
I head on down and take the path west for a change past the white stripe wall and its dirty drain, the manhole cover is sporting greenery and the pond is filled with blue sky and fluffy white clouds. The dead tree is as usual waving her arms across the scene. I hear shouting up by the oak and decide to keep in the valley floor. Passing the place where that pulse was yesterday I see that it is a stick, or it could be a rope, something caught or something constructed, that is obstructing the flow, the bank is muddy so I don’t slip down to find out.
Instead I go to visit the spot where the tent was pitched yesterday and as I make my way I say hello to some of T the tree‘s trees in passing: Wild Cherry, hello; hello Hazel; Hi Birch and Hello Buckthorn. Under the cliff the grass is flattened where the tent has been. I come on down from the ledge and see the semi circle, suggesting a little amphitheatre, where the Council has mown back the grass, looking over at the length of jiggedy marshmallow wall of the hatch, facing into the sun, I don’t yet see the duck who is waddling the wall and flaps off as i approach. In the low light on the painted wall there is a leaving from the Alder, a single catkin cone glistening in its own little nook.
Up on the heath I pass the swing, making its pendulum moves at the fork in the path.
Goose grass creeping up in green towers, as high as the canopy will support it while stinging nettles dust the long fingered branches loaded with the may flower, the hawthorn, reveling in it’s untamed form, being the Fairy tree. I loop the loops Eastwards gazing back at the blaze from the setting sun, passing a tree bearing strange fruit, squares of sliced pan. Up the zigzag and down again, on the incline I see there are offerings left on the wall that drew me in on Sunday.