Summer Barrows

The ground is parched along the chalk ridge of Nine Barrow Down, on the barrows themselves the dried grass is cropped low by sheep who have taken any last remnants of nutrition and green growth that they could.  The Sun still beams from an azure sky populated by occasional swathes of bubbling white cloud and there's still plenty of heat to be felt, but you know you're in the last days of summer.  Something inside you wants to suck as much in as possible, you almost feel a subtle sense of desperation, knowing soon the winds will rise and with them scudding showers; you need to store as many memories of summer as you can to keep you going through the dark half of the year. I imagine those buried in the barrows would understand. In fact, I imagine those buried in the barrows would have felt the seasons far more acutely than we do, closeted by our modern luxuries. Maybe it's an echo of those far off times that stirs our feelings as seasons change.