It was not sunset, but the ghost of one. A faint, jaundiced orange painted the clouds towards the East, the skeletons of westward trees silhouetted without shadow, shadows themselves. ----------
The mist wept in the brightening dawn, its cold tears scattered on the moss and lichen that crusted the ruin's stone. It was like walking in wet cling film.
The sun unleashed a light from within, filling the hills, fields and rivers until they overflowed, adding to the sun's light their own richness, making it brighter; light that was tactile, a physical, touchable part of the surroundings, as much a medium as the air he breathed and the water running next to his feet.