Lie awake at night even in our composed Britain and think about how the land about you is changing every hour, as surely as your own body and as irresistably. Here small avalanches are spilling down cliffs, there miniature land spits are drawing clear of the sea, everywhere hills are being attacked and worn away. If our ears were keen enough, we should be able to hear the rustle of perpetual movement, a stirring of the silence not much greater than that made by the petal of a flower as it opens or closes.
-- from A Land by Jacquetta Hawkes (1951)
Post a Comment