Swifts Over The Bothy

The stillness of a long twilight in late May. Swifts skim the fading sky and lacy drifts of cow parsley fill the meadow. The silence is almost complete, broken only by birdsong and the low drone of insects, like the faint, gravelly static of recorded silence that seems to sit behind the quietest places. Beyond the meadow, the hall and Bothy stand in the last of the golden light, held for a moment between day and night.