Looking down from Cleat hill, late this afternoon. The light was falling between clouds in bars so that the landscape was intermittently lit. Gulls and crows were winging it from the circling buzzard. At the farm behind me, the hens bustled after their feed before lock-up. Two boys came up the hill and changed into their football boots. The footpath was slip-sucky with mud. Hardly any sign of the snow except at Mowsbury where half-melted snowmen made the playing fields looked like a surreal Henry Moore sculpture park.