Someone laid these stones by hand a long time ago. Moss has now swallowed the crest of the wall in a cushion of bright green, and lichen has frosted the stones. Where it began as a boundary, it now looks like something the hill grew.
The wall runs straight across the foreground, then slips between swaths of burnt orange grass, up to the foot of the hills. There, the glen narrows into a dark cleft where a thread of water falls, and above it, the cloud has settled low. The whole slope glows in the damp light, saturated and still. What remains is the line, following the wall into the mist, still pointing the way.
