I lie down, amidst soft shards of tarmac, flecks of glass, cans squashed by unknown fists. The scrubby ground yields forget-me-nots, coltsfoot, spring draba, herb robert. I learned these names during the pandemic, as the perimeter of my wandering contracted. Sycamore, Scots pine, bird cherry. From the trees, thin trails of birdsong. This is a place of remains. The hill that rears steeply behind me is seared with twisted dendix. Fly tippers have dumped black bags, white goods, a sagging red sofa.
I record a minute of birdsong on my phone. A gold rescue blanket, ballasted with tyres, susurrates in the breeze.