The skeletons of trees and bushes stand stark in the pale light of a winter morning. The mist hangs low in the valley, shrouding it in mystery.
I remember mornings like this from my childhood. I recall my fascination at the bejewelled spiders’ webs – they sparkle in my imagination, lighting up my mind’s eye.
Appearances can be devastatingly deceptive. Beyond the protective glass, the land is dead. The scorched trees have failed to come into leaf for twenty-seven seasons. We have no reason to expect anything different next year.
We have destroyed the only world we will ever inhabit. There is no turning back.
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