In and out of sunshine, I follow the cracked path.
A gatekeeper crosses Pack Horse Bridge. It's
the sort of day when everyone smiles hello.
The Hogsmill mumbles as it takes in Bonesgate
Stream - named for the nameless victims
of the Plague - like a drinking partner at an
otherwise deserted late-night bar. As ever,
nettles stick close to the blackberries among
the singular Russian comfrey. I use my left hand
to manoeuvre round to the plumpest fruit.
Like a billows, a red admiral basking on
a bed of thistledown puffs its wings in and out.