On the moors

There was a great incline of stone, weathered amongst the sparsely green valley whose feet lay at the door of a thatched cottage and whose head I was treading over now. A fair stream, no wider than a meter, had had its pulse dried up by the sun leaving moss strewn on florid rocky deposits, ran down the length of the valley transforming eventually into a river that sent the local watermills cartwheeling like ecstatic gymnasts. In one stride I was over, hopping onto a small ledge and (rather regrettably) crushing its treasured plant underfoot. Springing upwards, I skirted the boundary of the valley rising doggedly above the craggy edge and there, waiting in all its recklessness was the wind.