The Moors of Yorkshire

The browning brush crinkles under foot.
The howling winds whistle through stone crevices,
stinging cheeks,
feather strokes,
rippling hair,
ringing upon desolation.
Hillsides against the horizon,
oblique and distant,
alluring,
alight in auburn,
beckon the sunset.
Lavender ignites in deep violet,
vibrantly dancing in the breeze,
scorching purple,
searing spectrum,
burning against the brush.
The bitter scent,
aromatic,
tingling tongues,
marinating in mouths,
clinging to the evening air.
Exuding taste,
Reminiscent of home.