Are they shadows, ghosts, spirits, impressions or imaginings? Waymarks?
Or all of the above? Stay out there on the fellside long enough in winter, and reason, paradox and ambiguity stop arguing and start agreeing. You just slide along with it, over the ruts and hidden frosted roots.
With earth and rain the seed germinates. The strengthening sun and air breathe on and all will flourish once more.
Springs well from the earth and spill and trickle and creep down to the nearest gullies, and push on down with boisterous pairings to reach the South Tyne. There they rally, rude and vulgar in their collective strength, to push aside boulders and trunks, and head in comic tragedy for the sea.
At night, the stars are scrubbed to powder by clouds, tumbling over each other in their haste to lick the hilltops with lusty long strokes of their dark tongues.
Even when the wind takes a rest, nothing seems ever completely still. The leaf litter squeaks and crackles. Frost sifts from slender twigs. Buzzards mew in slow arcs above. There's something in the trees.
