The spirits of the dead.
They're fleeced as naked sheep.
They hang cold and desperate.
Howling over desolate isolated moorland.
Screaming on the gale.
The linger just a moment, where man nor beast exist.
This ethereal racket, caused by the sharp and biting gorse bush.
It's scratching wounds, deep into grey shadows,
Left overs of spoiled souls.
(C) Livvi