Wales
The train devours the landscape like a dragon. Sheep scatter. Hills shrink to the size of sugar cubes. A shepherd brandishes a hand signal like a sword as carriage after carriage thunder past, cracking the silence. The white sky, crisp as an ironed shirt, offers no consolation. It may be deep into night when all the sheep are retrieved. Pity not the shepherd and his flock. Everyone on the train will remember sheep, sky, hills like a nursery rhyme imprinted on the brain. Everything seen when they return will fade into this. The smallest of hills will be the biggest giant, threatening to peel the sun like an orange.
After the affair
The heron gulps the blue sky like it's a last meal. Swallows it whole until clouds emerge to cover its modesty. The sun can't take it anymore, fleeing across the horizon like a hare with survival on its mind. Somewhere, somewhere, is a man whose heart has desire hiding like a frog under a pea soup pond fringed with ferns.
Somerset
If you wrote a postcard from Somerset: The rain tastes like apples round like the hills. The Levels are unwritten poems. Everything is as you imagined. How true, how true would the words be.
Flight of the dragonfly 