Five thousand years ago, fog​ ​drowning​ the hills. The air meets land, the land meets the water. So much further away than now. Treacherous flowing​ ​glistening, a spectacle. Now the veiny​ rocks bleed​, punctuated with ​electricity ​overhead. Forged to unite us​, moving on​ ​Intertwined​ paths.​ It has replaced the stones, the circles. The sea has perforated, eroding into the history, erasing existences ​underground​. Five thousand years ago, ​alien​ objects scattered in the village. Spheres with tentacles​, peculiar clusters of ​blobs​, symbols of power, their purpose not known. Carved from organic material, lasting longer than us. Five thousand years ago, wild berries and herbs in the scrubland​, uncultivated​, the deer and seabirds, the virgin forests. Walking takes us back in time,​ ​colliding ​with the present​,​ cutting into it, revealing, uncovering. They buried themselves, as nature eventually would have, the​ higher powers ​impending threats. Or something more ​sinister​.

Fran Thomas