Turf, drying slow.

Descending through clouds, into the rain, into the fog protecting the past. And there it is, a landing strip to ground something long aloft. Here's truth, unconditional, here's baggage claim, unguarded. A rainbow guided us through a patchwork of wee walls and overgrowth. Fresh, bright, unmistakable. Up the lane, hedge-bordered and rutted, past the whitewash, jagged gates and sheep dots...one-way, hammer-away before the tractor comes. Later, in the thick of it, a turf fire sizzled in the background, all embers and sass. Once moss cut, quartered and stacked low to dry, a field of these crumbling thatch pyramids stretched before me, an impossible sight, geometry meeting livelihood, some ancient brickworks cleaved and cleared. Through a hedgehole, we stole into someone's field, sidestepping paddies, looking for bulls. The potato trenches were newly filled and ploughed over, seed envelopes, waiting for the rain. We were waiting for the tea then, out there, mid-nowhere, a ploughman's lunch came swinging with floury baps soft folded in a towel. Never better, and I'm back.