ley lines

Dorset is strange. It isn’t just the humming under his skin, the way the breeze wraps around his hands and spins him round like a couple in a black and white movie, skirts twirling and breeze catching hair. It isn’t the way the paths wind and twist with trickery in each turn. It isn’t the emerald of the grass and the cows that graze in fields, ever far away. Maybe it is the ancientness of it all, the fossils that lie immortalised in limestone, flora and fauna and everything in between. Maybe. His feet pick up, half running along the paths. The dust clouds in Tommy’s wake, settling like snow onto the carline thistles that line his way, yellow centres smiling up at the sun.