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High on a blustery jut he flouts his fear upon a buoyant swell. Breathes in the tang of crowberries and storm clouds aroma’s sieved through wind and limestone, sheep piss and heather. Way down on a lower sky rock ravens spiral. This is his land, his free blown air. There he declares himself the very image of this scudding world; and he magnified and upright, somewhere between a twirling gnat and a new begot God. © a day ago

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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