A few weeks ago I walked around Barrow Bridge Village in Bolton. The village is beautiful and wherever you walk you can hear running water. Moss hangs luxuriantly over the stone walls and seems to be the scent holder of all the olfactory goings on in the village! So here in tribute to my walk is a fifty word story.
Beware moss. I settled my nose into its sun warmed texture and found oaky smoke.
Fresh vetiver. Wet earth.
Moss, you ostensible friend to all that goes on in a village: witness to every virtue and misdemeanor.
Your sensual gift, a subtle testimony.
You natural Poirot, perched hungrily on that wall.
