We came from this place before we even knew ourselves. Ages passed, and we returned, not as inhabitants but as outsiders. The call of the sea rings eternal, a siren song that grips us with curiosity and fear in equal measure. Unable to resist, we cling to the shallows or pass over the abyss in our fragile vessels, ever vulnerable to its whims.

Under twinkling starlight lies the harvester’s hoard. Across field and fen, mere and broad; the land has become twisted and bare. These newly barren fields are haunted by a chill night breeze that gently pulls at the last leaves of Autumn. The fields and furrows slip into quiet stillness as we contemplate and prepare for the coming cold.

Since our earliest days, we have marked the land we live in. Our existence leaves behind patterns, tracks, trinkets and monuments.