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
Continue reading at Writing in North Norfolk
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 