Start in the net of her hair, or better, webs after rain – as those strung bare in alder’s low saplings along the marsh, in this morning’s run; doubled, the cup of webs, stacked one on another, just as in Faro, early morning, among the forest floor’s damp ferns, hung hundreds, thousands, catching, from vapored mist, the whitening air, and I, of humans, the only one on the damp and rutted lime road, as I, from the labyrinth by the beach of hearts, came back.


The first labyrinth I stumbled on, seven years before, at Anundshög. On the map, Number 5, past the high grave-mound where girls ran among queen anne’s lace, laughing, down toward the large eerie stones set in the shape of ships, past the oddly engraved runestone and the road the king once rode.  Small wild raspberries, drought-dry, under oak. Hooveprints hard in ridge clay. In small cypress shade, an ewe, her lamb butting for milk.


I like Tilley’s phenomenological approach, how he writes that “experiences of places are. . . fragile and dulled with the passage of time” and this is why “it is essential that they be recorded in the place and the time of our study.”