Old Peakster hill sat ruggedly between two cliff faces, directly facing Wilmots new town and just bulging out behind the 18th century “Old” village. Rain, hail or shine it sat proudly, promptly minding its own business like a gratified child with a new toy. Nothing disturbed it, nothing bothered it. It was the perfect place for thinking, the perfect place for relaxation. Beneath the monumental vertical drop lay the “Mouth” as it was called. This …showed first 75 words of 1089 total…

…showed last 75 words of 1089 total…leaves preparing itself for the forthcoming Autumn. I looked down at the ever fading Wilmot as darkness spread itself over the dusty streets, covering the cobbled avenues like a dense blanket of soot. Just then, the sun breathed its last enlightened breath, and I slowly made my way down the cliff, my feet sweeping away the rejected leaves, leaving Old Peakster to prepare for a new season, a new dawn. Paul Mc Erlean ------------------------------------------------------------------------ **Bibliography**