The world turns slower out on the moors.
Time stops meaning anything as the days are sporadically longer and shorter.
Even the seasons don't matter, the weather is always the same gloomy grey.
It always rains on Sundays, thick blackish clouds and roaring winds.
The local church goers look more and more like a funeral procession with each passing week.
The wind is a constant worry.
Will it blow down the fence that protects the house from the wolves?
(They say the wolves have been extinct for centuries but something like them lives on)
Are the roof tiles holding, how many will be have to replace this time?
(There are always scratch marks around the missing tiles, something wants in)
Still, in spite of all this the moors at least offer breathtaking views.
Some linger too long in these places, caught and suffocating and found always too late.
Hiking trails are marked out neatly on maps and handed to every tourist/passer-by.
Nothing stops an inquisitive mind like slipping slowly into rain-drenched grass.
Especially when it is overgrowth covering one of many water filled sinkholes.
The currents from them go deep, deep down to places nobody comes out of.
We have names for each and every one that only tourists dare say out loud.
They shouldn't be surprised when the named things seek them out or draw them in.
Worse still is when they return, unmade and unnameable.
The moors take something from every visitor.
Time stops meaning anything as the days are sporadically longer and shorter.
Even the seasons don't matter, the weather is always the same gloomy grey.
It always rains on Sundays, thick blackish clouds and roaring winds.
The local church goers look more and more like a funeral procession with each passing week.
The wind is a constant worry.
Will it blow down the fence that protects the house from the wolves?
(They say the wolves have been extinct for centuries but something like them lives on)
Are the roof tiles holding, how many will be have to replace this time?
(There are always scratch marks around the missing tiles, something wants in)
Still, in spite of all this the moors at least offer breathtaking views.
Some linger too long in these places, caught and suffocating and found always too late.
Hiking trails are marked out neatly on maps and handed to every tourist/passer-by.
Nothing stops an inquisitive mind like slipping slowly into rain-drenched grass.
Especially when it is overgrowth covering one of many water filled sinkholes.
The currents from them go deep, deep down to places nobody comes out of.
We have names for each and every one that only tourists dare say out loud.
They shouldn't be surprised when the named things seek them out or draw them in.
Worse still is when they return, unmade and unnameable.
The moors take something from every visitor.
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