I’m working on a set of poems that have developed after a week spent in Uley and Owlpen. I found well-worn tracks and holloways, the ruins of a medieval cloth industry built on wool, hills topped by Neolithic barrows, topped again by Iron Age hillforts, and once again by a smallpox isolation hospital, once again lost. There’s still poverty. There’s still wealth. Here’s a faint flavour of place.
we stop for breath and the wood
on the steeps
below Uley Bury