A Day In Arcadia

You leave the car at what was once, in old reality, a farm and where the National Trust democratise so now not cows but parking motorists feel alarm. Across a road are loos, ex milking parlours still with “stools” and piss as folk make moves to an archway leading to a long curved lane edged with a guard of reeds that, while obstructing the view ahead incite its anticipation. Conducting the children, we lead them to where the pathway fairs into the beach framed by those stalks high reach from their rooting in Arcadia. Some fresh reality as we quicken pace through that narrow place into entrancement, a shout of elements where the claustrophobe of routines in small spaces erodes into the expansive sunbed of yielding pearl toned grains. Here we claim our place below a trope of salt drenched thrift and campion sea slopes barricading us from the insomnious land breeze that keeps conscious plain life.