Heather, up close, is like tiny trees. The trunks are gnarly, with bark that is thick and black, or silvery like birch. Sometimes they grow too tall and flop over, and the trunks are exposed, fanned out like silver veins against a rough dark canopy of tiny leaves.
Among the heather, dead trees lie like bones, bleached silver by the years. I wonder how old they are. Every so often, there are real bones, white skulls of sheep or fragile white ribs of tiny creatures.
The ground springs beneath my feet and sounds hollow. Far ahead, I see mountains. I can’t see the sea any more.
I wish I could see the sea.