Spending the weekend in North Devon, looking for inspirational sights and sounds from the rugged grandeur of the cliffs and waves or poetic harmony in the rolling moors, with added alliteration from the babbling brook and sparkling stream. All I’ve gained is the morose damp of the moistening mists. Plenty of time for reflection and retreat.
Grainy grey the sky
silent but for buzzards cry,
the ponies shaking
mealy waterlogged withers,
antlers clash in morning mist
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