The end of the world is in a field in Suffolk.
At its edge is frozen earth.
A field of thick squat green leaves.
Ridged in fist sized clods.
The air is wet.
And smells of bonfire.
Trees emerge and disappear.
A barn owl is swallowed from flight.
A white, fog filled, world muffled and blind.
Huddled figures pick through the new land.
Life searching out life in deadening land.