Saturday, 5 December 2015

Northern Thunderland

I've forgotten the beauty of this line, but then it thunders into my dreams. The crystals crisscross to masterpiece a new line of flow. I'm psyched! YES! The more the wind blows. The more the cold penetrates. The more the moor soaks: I'm ready.

I'm ready to slip on the warm shoes in the ambient breeze. I'm ready to twirl a brittle twist that neigh-on snaps the gristle in my back. haha ha! YES! Two aretes play together; each a form that compliments the other perfectly; to have one would be a luxury, but to have two, so elegantly juxtaposed, is to strike a line of perfection through the soul.

YES! YES! YES! The heather now blows flat in the wind to breeze a tormented path of recalcitrance. With every gust the breathing part of me sinks and wains to ether. The essence of Moor floats into me. It is not the first, nor second, nor third time this unconquerable wave of psyche powers to lift light, drifting faintness of my mind. It is the last: it tells me in playful illegibility.

You pickle and twist, pickle and twist; every perfect form till it scours a new hell of the mind. In the Key Heugh however, the line remains the divinity of insurmountable genius. Lest cognition in the mire outspews, take the challis double-gripped and join your arms with violent chest-fired clasps. We are here! The drenched monks of the southern moors on the scarce-bountied Northumberland slopes. Plod, plod till I climb the line.

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