The setting sun sinks into the West, causing the sky above Aspley Guise to glow like Wayland's forge.
Merry Korrigans dance among the staddle stones on the lawn.
Fair undines, green of skin and eyes, call their siren songs from the gentle Hus Borne, as she traces her gentle path down to the brown, summer-sluggish Ouse.
To the eerie, aeilian tones of a three-strung harp in the fork of an ancient oak, the wodewosen meet in mute assembly to greet the crescent moon - snug in the old moon's arms.
Archdruid: Sorry, did you say something?
Charlii: I said, Midsomer Murders is on.
Archdruid: Brilliant. I hope there's a dodgy vicar.