Around this time of year the ponies are particularly guarding over the moor's legacy, there is a sway in their steps as they meander down the ditch. A heady tang I will never forget, we watch the crumbs of our bread and cheese turn to stone as you ask; "Is the sky always this purple?"
And from the Hay I walk on the moon to the hounds that watch over this land. I stop to twist my alphabet into a letterbox, to leave an overdue recollection, and you rush off ahead to churn and mull over your escalating thoughts. We unite again ten minutes in the past, reminiscing five miles into the future whilst fumbling to grasp onto a slice of the present.
We stop to console the young girl at the crossroads; I rest against Bowerman and feel his blood moving. You quake on the featherbed as a thick rolling mist beckons us towards Princetown. Things take a turn for the worse as the prisoners of war pass through us. Then you find us walking over Two Bridges although we are unable to crawl over one.
Watching the granite dance on the Sabbath from atop a headless horse I catch the top hat you throw me, adorn my head as I sink into your inner monologue. Upon feeling the frost for the very first time I turn, and reply; "Yes it's usually purple at this time in the morning." You tell me it's been three hours, but I'm convinced it's been five days.
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