The sky lies on the horizon 
like a smoke-coloured cat 
draped over a sofa of heather, 
purple as pansies but sharper, 
scratching against boots and paws. 
It washes across the landscape 
in a swathe of paint, 
broken by breadcrumb rocks. 

Up here, the wind gallops, 
almost spins me round 
to face home again. 
Water framed by narrow paths 
like battlements, flicking 
onto grey stones and sand, 
smell of earth, damp air.
 
Our path drops down 
like the side of a ship and the dog, 
ginger beacon in a sea of bog-grass, 
skids on his front paws. 
I shuffle sideways, crab steps 
slipping from mud to puddle.