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A prismatic mist, refracting sunlight into it's pale colours, casting shivelight onto the late season oaks that scatter the heathland groves,

through the mist a watchful peregrine soars, in it's eye the weary hare who retreats into his warren under the roots of a hundred gnarled oaks, bound into one, connected through the rich heathland clay.

Run over the hills and through the trees, past the gentle winding creek, through bramble thicket so rampant and blinding,

to take cover under the remaining woodland canopy,

to mourn a homeland, once so prosperous and green.