Last summer, we fell and tangoed between the hips of the hills. We spooned gawkily into the stinging grass, our morassed eyes made out half shadows of gipsy vanners eating the moon. * This Easter I’ve returned to those trails, cracking the mud, but not with you. My sister climbed the kissing gate and clung to its large eyelid as it yawned back and forth. I found those mounds again, by light. She ran me into its soft belly belting “the hills are alive” utterly off-key. It was worth capturing: we took pictures of our imprints, shadows, our legs by our ears, elbows on our knees, (the sheep just watched). Another gate and we ambled down the road, the sun was eaten by twigs. I tried to stamp on each dapple, Anna skated against the dimples, till the pub arrived, and pistachios to crack open. Here, there was no trace left of past excavations.