Dusk’s light embraces the fertile layers of heather, flowing down the wind-smoothed face of the Black Hill.
Drink in her ambrosial beauty with your parched fingers; hold each delicate bloom in cracked palms.
Remember this walk, to be over before morn. Breathe the sweet aroma. Hold tightly what cannot be held.
Depart the slope and find the cool, moist ground. Accept sleep’s invitation. Slide into the night to find the dawn.