He climbs. Before him the hills roll uninterrupted to merge with a silent, empty sky, the black clouds like bruises. Between each rise deep valleys lie lost in shadow. He reaches the summit and stares down into a gloom that hangs thick as smoke. Within the greyness darker patches promise hope. Hurrying, almost tumbling down the steep slope, he makes his way towards them. As he draws closer the promise turns to ash again, the patches taking on substance becoming buildings, ruined, spoilt, empty. He wanders through the desolation then begins the climb up the next hill to the next valley.
— Carol Leggatt