Nature, Photography, Poetry, Story idea, Water, Writing

Exmoor Scramble

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Nothing has changed for a thousand years here as you cannot hear a tree fall taken by the life that lives on and used again and again. Fungi sprout on flakey timber, lichen never found anywhere else on earth celebrate their status and sprout unusual orange tufts on crimped green leaves.

A stream runs the length of the ancient cut. Small deep glass pools form and bubbles converge as the falling water joins it’s sister below.

Above the cold a buzzard sits on an oak, wise as a General, hawk-eyed, hungry. Seams here in the rock run red with iron, concrete earth with plant and grow through each other sustaining,
while we fade away.

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