Grassy scree sweeps,
a crumpled quilt on windblown moors,
broken only by thistles
like globe artichoke heads
and a sole skull, once warm and woolly
but now long dead –
no skeleton, the only backbone formed by distant tors.
Bowing stiffly before
the threatening gale,
sedge clumps hiss
and escaping hoverflies
hum a monotone refrain.
Empty orbs will never see
the bristling tar-black trees
or the oppressive broiling clouds
heavy with rain
eager to fill spaces left by crow-pecked eyes
with drops as big as marbles from the punishing sky.
Kim M. Russell, 13th October 2018