Along the road there is a village, where a crosslegged girl plays snobs in the dust; a woman walks in the dust carrying cats, and behind an old car a pig snorts. The hill climbs past a house sprawling in the dust of the hot green day: it is a bridge around time. Two hundred years ago this was scrubland, with only the sheep walking in the hot dust and pheasant eggs; and the manor settling in the trees over a long pool remembers.
The spade cuts gashes in this two hundred years and two men and a boy look on as the shining knife cuts deep in orange loam; But it has cut gashes before and it is content.The sun has seen its heliographic flashes through time – the change through from six men toiling in the blinding dust, to the sweat of an April day and one man with rolled shirtsleeves turning, turning.
The wanderer walking up a cartroad over the hills kicks a pebble and dust flies; the wind springs up and blows the dust in his face.