Tuesday, 2 June 2015


The last wound was the deepest.
The wound of loss
Cries like the gale over the moors -
Fierce-whipping eroded rocks,
Stripping the thorned gorse of its last bloom,
Loosing desolation,
Devastating emptiness.

Silent-bound, the broken hillside mourns.
Only the kestrel keens.
B. I. Hartless

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