Tuesday, 16 December 2014

Winter Walk at Dusk

Flitton and Flitwick moor, today. (all photos © Mel Melis)


The peat bog caresses,

with sticky tarred fingers,

exploring the flesh,

and drinking the droplets,

of hot breath falling,


understanding the strangers,

the night waking,

as the day sinks in fading red,


life stands still,

bar one last laugh,

from the woodpecker,

the birds are silent,

invisible, cold hardened,

watching the mottled clouds,

and listening

as the moor starts to converse,

quietly at first,


the river swelled, giggling,

creaking trees sway,

straight backed callow alders,

golden haired willows,

cowed and bashful,

squat crab apples,

and stern oaks,

dark and bold,

against the sunset.


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