I'm sitting on a wooden bench, atop a hill, facing acres of nature's finest. A hundred metres to my left is a paved road, and other signs of human interruption are scattered around in my field of view.

Despite this however, despite the destruction I know tarmac and paths and civilisation to cause, the scape was dominated by sky and trees and fields; the blue of air, the green of pine, and yellow of rapeseed.

Found litter in hand, and songs from the wood in my ear (both literally the Jethro Tull album and figuratively the birds through the creaking of trees), I realise that here at least there is balance. We as a species believe that we wield so much power over the rest of the earth, and count as evidence the cities we've built that flatten anything that lived their previously. But we are nothing new, when landslides and hurricanes, floods and earthquakes do just the same. We may be a natural disaster in many places but we are still natural.

And nature does not break, it only bends. Everything is assimilated; growing up around the fences are new walls of sweet-smelling gorse and pine. Ivy twists up towers and cement cracks to make way for persistent weeds that conquer through tenacity mankind's best attempts at order.

We have never sat on the throne of Earth, this is not our kingdom, but a niche into which we have been able to nestle ourselves, between the plants and animals which tolerate us as a nuisance but not one that is ultimately devastating.

A thousand years from now the tall turbines in the distance and the marking paint in the forest beside me will be gone, but the wind and the trees on which they rely will be unchanged. There lies the true power on Earth.