Winter solstice. The woods are dark and slathered with mud. The sun rises as bitter as gall, the deer run diagonally across the hillside. The wind’s along the Edge. It’s in the trees. You can hear the hounds but they’re down the valley yet.And is this half-resolved object in the seep (somewhere between an anxiety-ridden hairdresser’s manikin & the symbol of guilt that drags itself off the mud flats in John Gordon’s The House on the Brink) really all that remains of last night’s Heritage Ritual in the Tontine Hotel, Ironbridge?