On Dunmail Raise
The wind on Dunmail Raise plays tricks on the ear. Can’t see him, but you can hear him. Up there on the hill, shouting at his dog. One man and his dog, and the wind carrying them both. And then you see them. White specks, a fleeting flock across the bare hill. White speck sheep, like snowflakes drifting left, then right, and in a pale line along the dry-stone wall. A snaky string, up and across, and then they disappear over the hill. The dog still barks. The man still shouts. The wind’s still howling over Dunmail Raise.
air clear as sunflowers
wind and words stuck in your throat
it catches you out
For Twiglet #298 “A Bare Hill”. Photo is mine. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter