White Daydream in the heart of the cityI walked up on the moors in the white heat of a blizzard
Right into its heart. I walked for miles and miles and the heather wasn’t its royal, religious purple but white like ash that is so hot that it doesn’t have flowers and the cold snow blazing in my face was so extreme it hurt. I was in the heart of the blizzard, pounded me like a release of unease and physical pain and I was happily, gratefully dazed. The blizzard got worse and the heather at my feet was out of sight. The wind blew and blew but I still stood upright. The churchyards where some of my ancestors are buried and the places and the heather, they would have walked on were probably close by but in the blizzard they and my personal history were all gone and then I was back in the city seeing grey rain slicing the road.
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