As I have said before, I find landfill sites and waste ground oddly fascinating.
With landfill sites it is the processes taking place beneath the ground that I find absorbing to think about, the slow breakdown of human refuse as it gradually finds its way back into mineral form. We tend to think of human rubbish as the enemy of nature, but of course in another sense it is part of nature. Plastic bags or linnets. Nature, like Poppyfields, doesn't care.
I named Angus Wendering after the poem by W.B.Yeats, 'The Song of Wandering Aengus'. (There is a musical setting of it by Christy Moore, which is actually where I encountered it).
And hooked a little silver trout.
Beautiful in a way, but it's a dangerous dream, that dream of a magical, glimmering girl, a dream that can lead to cruel, dark places.
It's interesting how the poem both delivers and does not deliver a resolution in its final lines. The poem itself reaches those golden and silver apples, plucks them and gathers them in, but it leaves Aengus still searching for them. He'll never find them of course.