The Moor
The soil, black and thick. It runs deep and soft under a frail cover of Heather and Ling. The dark peat smells of old water, some of which leaches out and becomes stream, ditch, fen, bog. Cream dominates, the cream of winters past, shot through with the bright acid of new life, springing and surging from the deeps. Lapwing and Curlew call and swirl above, pinning down the air, mingling with Skylark call and Meadow Pipit siren. Stars of Bog Asphodel punctuate the moorgrass, spotted through the cloth of Cottongrass and seeking the light of a midday sun. The steady wind hurtles the pinions of Kestrel who hangs briefly in stillness, eyes searching for manna from moor. A lone Rowan tangles to the ground, roots drawing supplication from the ever present moisture.