Anchored in gravel, the monitoring station logs data samples. The hours of lost production tapped by sensor and cable. (35/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Downscale of the mill I tilt my ear to the chaff that falls from the shanks. White wake of impurity blown back to recovery. (34/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

I weigh up the hub held by seven hundred hands of hollow tower. A segmented alloy tube. No light. I climb the ladder. (33/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

On high, a freehold of six thousand square metres threshed by a rotor. All the feathering threefold swept into pitch cylinders. (32/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

A blade’s byproducts: from axis to tip, thick stripes cut me down to size. A twin farm, tilling the shade, the soil untouched until dawn. (31/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

The sky is soundless and sterile, soft scythes whisking isometric space. The wind interrupts the dream, and the wheeling wakes the air. (30/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Bundled conductors, stretched between tethers: a fret of electrons, tuned to earshot, etched in copper, harping the heat in my head. (29/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Collapsing the plain, the little infinitives, flush to the substrate. A skein of grey filaments, a flight into fencelessness. (28/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Outgate. An unsigned intersection, flaked asphalt grating on dirt tracks. Sing to the utility posts, the insects underfoot. (27/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Crowle Community Hub, lifeline and gateway, closed Tuesdays and Thursdays. The town is in bloom. Old farms, new homes, detached on link roads. (26/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)