Wool on the wire that feeds on fog

Wenlock Edge The weather has carded the bits of sheep wool into swags and the mizzle fills them full of treasure

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.