Savage and cruel.

The world is savagely pure tonight. Velvet sky, no clouds. The moon has lain down a milky walkway across the lake from where it's hanging, and underneath its influence the villages scattered around the plain are asleep, or at least the people who live in them are; the villages themselves are inanimate therefore are never either asleep or awake, they just ..... are.

Hyenas skulk around the huts scavenging for anything that might be remotely edible. The ground is always swept clean - snakes don't like to attempt to travel across ground devoid of cover of some sort and it falls to little girls to keep the village well swept.

Snakes, hyenas, little girls and the moon, but no sounds.

Belfast, on a misty morning.

A thick blanket of dank smelling mist is lying on top of the river this morning, where the warm water meets with the cold air. The water runs slowly in spite of last night's torrential rain, and there's no-one about. It's early, and the risen sun hasn't found the force to dissipate the mist, but it's vague half light has given the impression of life to the small valley.

Belfast is beautiful on misty days. The gloom is spectacular and penetrates the bones. Rats and shrews rustle tea thick grass on the river bank and foxes prick their ears and lift their noses hoping for something more substantial, like a rabbit. A solitary heron swoops slowly out of the mist and down the river bed to stand statuesque in the shallows, patient as ever.