I love the moors above the village. I just can’t get to them often.
The wind comes from the West, and goes to the East. Nothing lingers, not the clouds, nor the black water. Even the buzzard is swept downwind. The only thing that stays is the moor.
Now, despite a day of rain, it is a sandy desert – great dunes hunched above the valley, pale as barley chaff, and open to the sky and the river.