<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><channel><title>Landscape on first-folio.demo.lobb.ie</title><link>https://first-folio.demo.lobb.ie/tags/landscape/</link><description>Recent content in Landscape on first-folio.demo.lobb.ie</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-GB-oed</language><copyright>© 2023-2026 Taḋg Paul — Apache License 2.0</copyright><lastBuildDate>Mon, 01 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://first-folio.demo.lobb.ie/tags/landscape/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>Four Fields</title><link>https://first-folio.demo.lobb.ie/poetry/four-fields/</link><pubDate>Mon, 01 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>https://first-folio.demo.lobb.ie/poetry/four-fields/</guid><description>&lt;div class="poem"&gt;
The first field is the one you crossed at seven,
grass to the waist, the dog ahead.
The second is the one you saw from the train,
gold in September, already someone else's.

The third field you walked through arguing.
The rain came. You kept arguing.
The fourth field is the one you dream about:
flat, enormous, and always just behind you.
&lt;/div&gt;</description></item><item><title>Harbour</title><link>https://first-folio.demo.lobb.ie/poetry/half-remembered/harbour/</link><pubDate>Tue, 12 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>https://first-folio.demo.lobb.ie/poetry/half-remembered/harbour/</guid><description>&lt;div class="poem"&gt;
At low tide the harbour empties
to mud and the ribs of old boats.
The water goes out like a secret
someone decided to keep.

We sat on the wall and ate chips.
The vinegar stung a cut on my thumb.
You said something about the future.
The gulls were not interested.

The tide came back, as tides do,
and covered everything
we had been looking at.
&lt;/div&gt;</description></item></channel></rss>