Of Heather and Pain
The hills sprang upon the moor
like an overgrown thatch
Littered with amethyst heather
smelling sweetly of heaven
I stood, encased in a single, solitary shack
A monolithe of weathered wood
A spittle; the sound of the wind meeting a crack
and stirring a few leaves on the floor
No.
Heather. Dried heather.
There are no trees; this empty plain
A moan.
Silent. Unheard cry.
Ghosts reminicing their pain