I climbed Waden Hill a while ago, up from the Avenue past a clump of hawthorn and a badgers' sett.
The corn hadn't grown too high yet and the year was still to begin. A couple of larks had decided to build a family there, scurrying and tweeting and still not too sure how to proceed. I puffed and ambled to the summit and there by a wooden post stopped and set down my soul. Below stood Silbury Hill, stunningly wondrous and lovely in the midday light.
I will not flee from explosions and insanity, nor fall into the foolishness of conceit. I will climb the hills and paint myself amongst the imaginings of it all. Peace, poetry and stillness, and nothing more for my pillow.
Anon
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