Rylan John Cavell is Utterly Bewildered

               The exposed floodplain stretched out to the horizon. Wet and icy sand dunes were peppered by rocky pools full of scuttling, claw-snapping little beasts. They pot-marked the rolling plateau that unfurled endlessly into a misty grey forever. A cold wind blew in from that great distance, salty, bitter and aloof. It rattled the twigs of the trees that stood on the valley sides, and pushed the leaf litter too and fro, like an idle child bored with its toys. Why Combomble held onto his hat for fear of it being snatched away, looking over his long snout at the empty vista. The steeply sloped Valley at his back, usually lush and green, was white and grey with snow and stilled life.  “Something is coming.” He said to the wind, which seemed to agree, as it tugged at his scarf. Winter held a frozen hand over the Nisse Valley. Usually lush and green and smeared with the colourful paints of summer, Why Combomble thought of those days as if a lifetime ago. He had a simple rod and line