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[close] The morning after, the beach at Borth is a graveyard, a petrified forest thundered out of the sand by the storm, drowned by the sea six thousand years ago when the Earth was flat, the horizon the edge of the world. Remains of stilted walkways tell their story: how they walked over water between trees, longing for a lost land when the sea-god stole it, how they shouldered their children and fled with every creature that could crawl, run, fly, till time turned truth to myth. It’s how it will be as world turns reflective: seas sated with meltwater, craving more; a cliff-fall takes a bungalow; a monstrous tide rips up a coastal train-track; storm fells a thousand-year-old oak, smashes a graceful seaside promenade. Grieve for lost wilderness – for the lovesick salmon, lured by sweet river-water sleeved in the salt, homing upstream to spawn at the source where it was born; for mating hares in love with the March wind; for thermals lifting a flaunt of red kites over the wood;