The lane stretches a little, the way English lanes do when something ancient decides to walk through them.

No one comments.

They’ve felt that shift before, in churches, bus stops, rented rooms.

A hedgerow stirs. It’s only time remembering itself. The deep unhurrying earth caught out by a goat.

cold verge
the old god pretending
he’s not laughing

Paul Conneally
December 20th
2025