Storm Over Scout Moor

Beneath a sky of charcoal rage, where thunder scrawls on lightning’s page.
The moor lies wide, a haunted plain, its grasses lashed by spectral rain.

Tall sentinels of whirring grace, the turbines haunt this desolate place.
Their ghostly arms in silence flail, against the storm’s unholy wail.

To Hail Storm Hill, the shadows creep, a brooding hulk where tempests sleep.
And Whittle Pike, like some lost god, stands cloaked beneath the storm cloud’s shroud.

The land is torn; the peat runs black, cracked bones of earth and thunder’s track.
Through the gale a whisper flies, old moorland oaths and unseen eyes.

Here, wind is wrath, and rain is curse, each bolt a rune the skies rehearse.
And lightning inks a tale of war upon the bones of Scout Moor. No soul with sense would linger here, where storm and legend reappear.