High as the birds.

Everywhere is green and filled with flowers. We pulled her away from Her painting. The dogs needed to walk we said. Up the hill where the dragonflies rattle dry wings and hover in the still air. Where buzzards call from high in the clouds. Where the grass is dotted with yellow and the tall grass flowers hold the gold of the sun.




Purple heathers smudge the hillside with darker colours. Lichens paint the rocks a soft green. And from high above we see the coast path snakes around the cliff tops. High on the rocks we watch the world like birds do, looking down to the sea. Higher still in a fury of sound a flock of pigeons shake the air with a roar of swift wings and are gone, racing away from the danger of peregrine, home swift to a loft and soft hands to welcome them in. City birds.
We watch from on high, looking down on the flight of raven and buzzard and kestrel and wren. And in the distance white fulmars wheel around the cliffs, balancing the air on straight, stiff wings, kings of the cliff face.