Wisps of sheep’s fleece snagged on barbed wire are full of pearls and crystal. The wool has lost its mattress-stuffing quality and, now wet, its lanolin makes the moisture from drizzle and damp stand out in droplets. These gleam with what little light is left, giving the fleece effulgence, as if it were a living substance like fungal threads or root hairs feeding on the fog.



The wire fence is strung between the lane and the field; it passes under looming hulks of sycamore and ash, but today there is nothing to keep in or out. The field is empty but for a dreaminess of winter trees and the occasional wing-clap of wood pigeons; the sky empty but for sepia murk with rubbed-out edges. The land feels mesmerised, hiding from itself in a trance.

The tiny world in a rotten post top Read more

A goldcrest, small enough to fly through the circle made by thumb and forefinger and sounding like distant bleeps of radio static, worries about in a tree. Grey squirrels, cidered-up on crab-apple windfalls, swagger across the usually dangerous ground. Blackbirds and robins abandon attempts to throw notes of song into the fog and instead pick at the air with dark-humoured commentary. New leaves of cow parsley are small and lacy on the verge, and something scuttles among them.

This is good weather for concealment, for sneak thieves. There is treasure in this fog’s overcoat pockets for the picking, and no-one to see. The weather has carded the bits of sheep wool into swags and the mizzle fills them full of treasure.

Fleece was used in ancient times, put into streams to filter the water and collect particles of tin, copper, silver or gold – the origin of the Golden Fleece. But isn’t there a legend about the Golden Fleece being guarded by bulls and a dragon? A king who keeps it must be slain by the one who takes it? The wool on the wire sparkles with temptation, but the fog feels denser as the light fades. I hear footsteps on the lane behind me.



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