Image - Steve Coel
...out there on the scarab pathed moor where lonely birds pleat their song into ferned memory, old feet leisured by a lifetime of pain, shuffle slowly homewards...
...close by, as carefully baited lowland feather slaps its muted surface, ripple stone water stumbles into ice age grass bank...and through gaps in tree tired stone walls, wild horses fret and gather as rutted horizons shadow mountain valley...
...after too many years spent on The Mercy Path absorbing wire sharp whistled song, farewells will still be given through brick house window and muddied wall...
