Moorland

The clouds suck in.
The
wind, soaring its passage
venting her untamed
bleak of
moorland self destruction.

How bends and nods the cotton
grass
flimsy in their slightly seen better days
fluffy bobble
hats – worn low
against their barren back drop
of
existence.

The sun put to bed – long
before her
face she aired –
Dreary this place of
home
where the sound of faceless
calling birds split
to
open, the deadening rush of winter’s
strident progress.

Tampered down
the fading
heather beds
like purple pitted bruises
sweeping
imposingly
still with a view
to catch the seldom wanderers
eye.

Home - How
it calls to
those final residing
guests
as to their wings they beat in flight
far – far away.

Broken back of moons half
light growing.
Of dog fox barks, and owls that
screech
the tongue of fear in man.

So, we shall withdraw
waiting
on spring – hopeful on the arrival
of old friends made.
Deep
regrets in those extended sighs,
for the acceptance of many
that
we know
we will never greet again…