The Land of Cath Palug

On this quiet evening She left behind the dogs, left behind the camera, walked to the high hill top and Kiffer and I walked too. My fur glowed rose in the evening light as the sun set red over the sea.
So still an evening that you could hear the moth wing buzz as they rose from the grass beneath our paws, could hear a feather drop like the skylark song, could hear the sheep across the fields and way away the horses drum hoofbeats. So still we could hear the badgers yicker yak and tumble outside the set like a city under wind twisted thorn trees. So still we could hear the rustle of bracken and then see the red mask of fox face as she hunted, searching for fat pheasant. Summer sleek and dark, she blended with the shadows on the hillside, but we watched her sure footed rambling, nose down, tail up, dark back and robber's mask.
The sea so calm in made a perfect mirror for the sky to look at her beautiful face. The air so clear that if you looked towards the north the coast of Wales stretched out, beyond Snowdon and up to North Wales, where Cath Palug the great cat of Wales still haunts the hills. The land looked like faery islands. Beautiful.
Home in the twilight and the white flowers glowed like fallen stars and the moths grew larger, more numerous and early bats flitted in their aerywinged hunt and the fox bark and badger call laid claim to the land and to the darkness.