Gloves seeking hands

I walk thinking about a brief I have received to write about 'the narratives' of a place. This is writer-speak and I can only guess what it means.

The pits in the lane down to the coast path are full of muddy water, reflecting fence posts and barbed wire. To my left, over Carn Brea, dark clouds are approaching and the sky is the same colour as the dirty yellow fleece left hanging on hedgerows by escaping sheep. On my right, towards Godrevy, there are patches of blue sky, and sunshine highlights gorse on the cliff-tops curving away from me.

The blackthorn blossom is out, but on one of the trees there hangs a white glove. Later, I find another glove sprouting from a fence post.