Golden Cap

Bracken scratches up to the thighs of every fighter who ends a hard-fought journey here. It tumbles down the back of the sharp cliff climb. A border between now and then that separates us from the arteraic pathway littered with pinecones and bruised bluebells through the clotted woods It ends before the Western drop off the side of the plateau, before you can peer down at the puddle of vomit coloured stone homes that make up Charmouth.
No one looks at them for long though, not with the ocean weeping for attention 200m below as the sky causes its spring mood to fall. I glance east, to the town where I grew up, tucked in to sleep like a fairy-tale, like a dream I once had. Mostly, though, I look at the sea-salted streams coating my feet that slowly erode the ground where my sister’s ashes used to lie. The rain is a gentle nudge off the mountain and back down to reality. I leave her dust behind only – the rest of her comes with me.

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