Hollowing Wind

Hollowing Wind

A hush settles not peace, but pause like frost whispering across a half-lit moor where thistle and bone lie still.

The wind combs through wild heather and memory, unravelling whispers in the hollows where your name should root.

Time stumbles a lone rook wheeling between cloud and cliff, its shadow a bruise where longing breaks.

I reach through sea mist and branches aching with dusk and find the shape of nothing carved sharp as a tide-washed stone