Kestrels tumble from hot blazing skies. Pylons stride across the moorland, agitating for towns.
We’ve left the city’s humid tumult far behind, hitched for three days, not washed for two.
Sweat-stung eyes blinking, we’ve erected a tent. In another world, far below, a river imprints on our vision like a soft silver pencil line on a landscape painting.
In a cool pool, spring-fed, I baptise her, she blesses me.
A tranquil plane shimmers here at the stones: they communicate by persistent silences.
When darkness falls, invisible Druids march past, their solemn history stills our lust for fleeting moments.
Horrorshow over 4 years ago
Stunned that no one but me voted for this! I thought it was excellent. I've been hoping to squeeze the word "tumult" into a drabble for a little while now. You beat me to it, Drew! :-)
Drew Martyn over 4 years ago
Haha, it really is a good word isnt it? Thanks as always for the comment and the vote!