Hang out the washing. Nearly dark. Peg the cold wet clothes to the line as three blackbirds scare each other in the thin blue dusk. A curl of moon high in the south beyond the phone lines, scratchy Jupiter nearby.

Turn right along the edge towards Ringmore. Across the valley to the left Burrator dam, waterfalls made miniature by distance. My eyes cup the tiny landscape and hold the view. Three small rough-haired ponies hide out in the carpark by the cottage; swollen bellies, chestnut, black and white-brown. Head off down the lefthand fork, single track towards Sheepstor village, rivers of ice skidding across the tarmac as the weight of water squeezes out of the grass crown of the moor. Auburn bracken crumbled into crystal green.

Just below the horizon sight connects distant-there-then to present-here-now. When middle ground is absent through topography or focus, vision is held within, embodied; a far view of external-landscape becomes an interior-miniature. Space collapses, tumbles into the eye, and becomes time: the distance rings with future/past - where one will be and what was once. The lace curtains of icy water tumbling over the dam and my looking are inverted, reversed.