A Surfeit of Spaniels
We are few in number, but our spirits are high. By the six hundred year old oak, we set up camp and the first poem is read. Midway through the recital, yapping spaniels descend through the woods, like a horde of goblins. One by one they pass, owners trailing in their wake. A golden cocker spaniel stops as if to listen to the poetry, before haring down the woodland track after the other dogs. The barking grows distant and calm is restored to our gathering. Distracted from poetic affairs, we set about naming the colossus.
ashes scattered around