Peter Riley

Leaving the George Inn to walk down the small road to Milldale it is so quiet as the light diminishes pale things begin to glow on the ground.

Each tree makes a slight whispering bat flitting over my head, gnat attempts to enter nostril – solitary, you are free to let your emotions expand.

Light peels off the downy slopes green to silver. Someone has chalked dad hurry up on the steepest...