insulate

I'm here in my own interior world, headphones, glasses, pen immolating experience, avoiding and resisting real: when of an instant I look up to flat grey expanse of dawn mist, racing past at a hundred miles per hour. You have no idea how green this country is until you've been without it for some time. How the rain hangs leaden in the air: visible and not needing to fall. How the rich mulch velvet of the land gives growth, and promise, and spring to a people that ignore it.

We leave this, unremarked, unnoticed; satiate our souls with the manufactured media pap of the twenty first century, only to forget the wealth at our feet. The silvered ice of the lake, the blasted bareness of a winter morning. The blank gape of a frosted sky unencumbered by timetable, by transport, by obligation or by city. But it's never over: the riches and fullness of the world we ignore: it endures. Without us.