Sitting, waiting and listening. In a place of belonging. He looks out over the patterned parallel lines of emerging wheat to the distant flame coloured autumnal trees. Shadowless they stand in the almost pleasantly warm early morning breeze. The fields seem lifeless under the greyness of the heavy clouds. Searching for meaning; searching for the unknowable, searching for the unexpected; searching for that something that will transform the ordinary into spirit - the real into the surreal.
Skylarks sing high and unseen. Above the gentle fields their song feels as though this should be springtime and not the end of October. A flock of fifty or so noisy seagulls rise from not far away and circle past him, silently - twisting and turning before vanishing against the horizon.
Once more in the stillness. Alone, it would seem at first glance, but yet not. A ladybird and a small dark brown snail move by his feet - this field edge being the beach to the sea of monoculture. The will of Gaia is always strong: to bring life and bio-creativity to any bare land.
From the far distance the repeated ring of a single church bell mingles with the song of the larks. Together they call to him, both have the same message. Listen to me, listen to song; listen to 'words', listen to an 'other', listen to spirit. Unlike in the film 'The Wicker Man' two worlds of otherness sit side by side. They become one.