Sat tall upon a cushioned hill of verdant green grass sat the tower ruins. Wind swept across the fields before it scattering and scything, blowing out over the cliff diving into the white seas below. In every direction lay the melancholy of memory; the once proud keep reduced to a weathered heap with the last strident walls remaining, defiant to the end. The wind whispered her name; the last of the keepers whose being and deed had faded from history, a scroll unfurled, decaying in the slow demise of time’s endless stroll away from the present to the distant day.
The Angry Farmer 