Gate post above Alfriston.
Almost at the top. The gates are long gone, but the posts remain, weathered by the elements, totemic against vast skies.
Every direction you look, it's like the land gives way to the vastness of the sky, observes the canvas in progress just like you. Clouds are brushed, crimped, ridged, swished, ruffled, scrunched, blasted, swept ragged across the blue.
When you lie down and gaze up, there's no other thing in your peripheral vision. You feel the hum of the earth like a happy roar.
Optimism is a west wind sculpting the sky.