Man on a Moor at Dusk

Dark clouds swirl above the desolate moor. The late November frost has petrified the grass. On the steep rocky path walks the shadow of a man, his craggy face bitten by the fierce ocean wind.
He’s been there before, another time of the year, another year of his life.
And the lazy days he used to spend, lying on the soft mossy ground amid the purple heather buzzing with the frantic dance of bees.
And how he could taste the sun-dried salt of the Atlantic on his lips and endlessly watch the waves break up against the dark granite below. Until dusk came.