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The Shell Line by Gill Moon
Trudging across the beach in the half light of dawn I am aware of the shingle crunching beneath my feet. Sea worn pebbles slide and meld together creaking under the soles of my walking boots. Each step leaves a footprint that charts my journey along the shore, evidence of my visit etched in the ground, clues to my presence for those who come after me.
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Where is the harm? By Gill Moon
It's just one thing I've cast away
where is the harm I hear you say? -
The Witness Tree By Gill Moon
In a grassy field on a shallow incline above the marsh stands a horse chestnut tree. An isolated landmark in a purple patchwork of thistles and shrubby mallow. A marker of ancient boundaries, a barometer for the seasons, a witness tree.
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My Wild Place By Gill Moon
On a corner of the sea wall between the marsh and the river lies an old world war two pill box. Half buried in the sea wall the abandoned monolithic structure has been embraced by the natural world, lichens cover its roof, a dog rose has taken root in the open doorway and cow parsley encircles the base softening the concrete harshness of the exterior.