The Face Of A Stranger by Rosie Adamson-Clark

 Yon, long  bleak fells,

a dreich harsh whipping wind,

replacing the constant mizzle,

which fluttered, floated

and then  flapped

at every living thing,

like a silky grey  sheet,

ready to be changed

for a brighter,

warm covering,

that didn’t appear,

moorland like a face,

stone heavy outcrop,

hung with wet,

the nose of its existence,

not a smile on the

rough features,

of this geomorphic

stranger today.

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