Scars of humanity.

The pasture in the valley below us has turned a sour yellow, pockmarked by molehills that retain their crown of frost all day. The air, in contrast, is as sharp and fresh as it will ever be and, beneath an ethereal sky, the first glimpses of the turning of the year are beginning. Snowdrops, those Trojans of the plant world, have burst from the soil, a few birds are singing and the pair of kestrels has begun its courtship, locking talons as they fly.

But everywhere, in the hedges and strewn over the verges, are the scars of humanity. The rubbish thrown from cars may be hidden by lush growth come May, but, for now, it is for all to see and it makes me sad. It makes me bitter, too. It is unfortunate that I live five miles from a McDonald’s drive-through, as that is clearly the precise distance it takes for someone to eat their burger before tossing its wrappings out of the window, but that regular culprit is not alone. The poor snowdrops share their ancient patch with cans of Stella and, this morning, with a fridge. The villagers will clean it up; the culprits will do it again. This cycle of life must stop, but few seem to care.