Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 4.45pm.

The fading willow herb stalks swaying in the wind are the kinked and spine collared necks of alien flora waving as they feed in the currents of an outlandish sea.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

Man wants to play fetch. The brindled dog with bow legs thinks it's much more fun to tease him by running round in circles so he can't get the stick.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 3.40pm.

Blackberries jeer. Their plump faces grin down from high and thorn-guarded fortresses and compounds among the bracken. I tell myself they are inedible anyway, probably tainted by traffic pollution.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 4pm.

This is a turbulent day of wind and sun and rain. A woman dressed in green lies on her back and holds up a book between her face and sky.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 5pm.

I am still drawn to the clear orange and green of rowan trees. But the common looks tired, dried up and sunken, as if summer has taken its teeth out.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 8pm.

In the western sky the setting sun darkens and reddens a vapour trail so that you would think that a plummeting disaster has ripped open a rent in the heavens.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 6pm.

On a scruffy web strung between two tired grasses, a pearl green spider hangs by two feet and manipulates with foot and pedipalps a bundled speck of silk-wrapped prey.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 3.15pm.

Dark rain on my grass green skirt. A robin with a berry in its beak laughs at the girl who swore she could get out and back before it started.

St Helena, clockwise. 6.30pm.

Nothing appeals here. I look over the road to the Lower Cricket Ground and watch the tiny scenes playing out there. A toddler lurches along, pivoting from foot to foot.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 8.15pm.

It's dusk. A woman on the top road talks into her phone. Suddenly she screams. I freeze. She says: "Jesus Christ, that gave me a fright." My nerves stand down.

St Helena, clockwise. 3.30pm.

He picks up litter and puts it in the bin and wonders how people can drop cups and bottles in a place like this. His brindled dog wants to play.

St Helena, clockwise. 7.30pma

I got up early specially. I thought it would be silent. There is an insistent whining sound coming from town and the crickets have already started. I am very disappointed.

St Helena, clockwise. 3.30pm.

A brown woodlouse. I wonder if he's dyed his shell auburn because he thinks the traditional grey makes him look tired, and now all his friends are laughing at him.

St Helena, clockwise. 4.30pm.

In tree shade, hoverflies hang at eyelevel, loom close and dart away. In sunlight, a white butterfly flaps drunkenly across the path. Seed fluffs surf air currents into the future.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 6.20pm.

Docks are pushing their seeds into the sky. The colour of metal rusting in a dark wet place. The colour of a mahogany table in a rarely-opened dining room.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 7pm.

A stout pigeon (out for an evening waddle) cannot bear to share the path with me. He takes flight in respectable disgust -- even his dust grey feathers wheeze their disapproval.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 4pm.

The creeping slugs have slid out today. They are dirty mac brown and the deep wet wrinkles on their backs are scored like the chasms in faded Brylcreemed hair.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 2.45pm.

I like to move up out of the cool shaded air in the valley to the warm still air in the sun at the top of the zig-zag path.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

A birch tree on the hill holds up green-grey tresses and skirts. A shudder runs through the leaves as if the tree is disgusted by something in the grass.