Today the prompt is a surreal prose poem.
Swartmill.
The sea, a swirling cacophony of grey and green, writhes beneath the steel grey sky and calls, seductively to the birds that circle ceaselessly above it, crying and screaming of last years triumphs or perhaps of fish that once caught escaped and became eels that then wriggled and wiggled their way into the land round the loch, became wormified and worried, dodging fleecy feet that stamp and stomp on rain sodden ground until a man stops and smiles, watching the silent and invisible upheaval.
(c)2ndwitch, 03/04/24
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