My evening walk got me to ponder about edges and being one thing or the other. On the edge of the Devon lanes, as I suspect of most other country lanes, there is a confusing problem of identity. Each day, soil slips onto the road, blown or washed, or brushed. Slowly, over the weeks and months, it is taken away, on feet, on tyres, and moved to somewhere else. Another part of the road. This made me wonder about the difference between soil and dirt and roads, and where each of these things stops and starts. If the soil were in a field, it would be soil. Some of it looks like pretty lovely soil to me. Yet, here on the road, it’s not soil, or road, but something in between. I wonder where it will end up.
Where does our soil go?
