We dwell in our tiny house, ignoring the storm. Outside, trees are falling: oak, beech, hazel, hawthorn, silver birch, alder, white willow, and holly, each with its distinctive role in the ecosystem and our collective folklore. Even stone is slipping into the sea: limestone, slate, granite, and sandstone, each one a staple of coast and castle. We can hear it, of course, but we build up the fire with yesterday’s treaties and manifestos; we make sweet tea and turn up the TV; and we concentrate on knitting long, long scarves for the cold, cold winter, as we watch the mindless shouting and the shivering queues for the executions.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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