Barefoot on barren moorland, crisscrossed with animal tracks,
Not another soul except for poets hunting in packs,
The cry of nesting larks.... the prey of murderous weasels,
A school of landscape artists encumbered by their easels,
Muddy potters...
Bearded weavers...
Artisan brewers...
Millennials in their millions...
And a folk band whose VW van has broken down.
I need some peace and quiet so I'm going back to town.