The sky at our feet

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie --
True Poems flee -
Emily Dickinson

Down the Fynn Valley the grasses were spring-time lush and green today, jewelled with bluebells, scarlet campion, archangel, cow-parsley. Birds sang high in the ancient woodlands, and the golden bell of a cuckoo rang along the valley.

And along this wooded path were pools deep enough to have pulled the whole sky into them