It's raining when I wake up, but the sun comes up for breakfast. Over the church, crows are tumbling in a huge pool of swelling light, black bonfire-ashes caught in an updraft of white gold, but the far side of the valley is still dull, caught under a drift of slate-grey clouds. I watch the sun fill the village, touch a brighter green from the far side of the valley, stain the clouds a deep blue-grey. I finish my tea, caught in a feeling of stony peace, a sense of standing planted, below the landscape, feet on rock (figuratively; I'm actually standing on powder-blue carpet). Below us, the church is huge, a great soul-barn anchored at the base of the valley, you can imagine sheltering there when the last judgement comes, a dark, solid, stone shadow in a golden cup of light.
Still tired, eyes flicking upward and shadows blooming out of their allotted spaces. Yesterday I saw a huge bubble of blackness bulge out of a Lych gate as we passed. Hm. I thought. I was very tired. I still am. The crows spin up from the church tower again.
You'd never guess Sellafield was just up the road.