Here we go, sorry it took so long, inspiration passage number two!
The wind was mourning again. Over the moorland it came, sometimes as a wailing banshee and other times the soft groaning of one who has long since lost the will to cry. The sky echoed its grief, shrouding itself in folds of deepest grey, the sun hiding its face behind the looming countenances of the clouds. All colour seemed to have been sapped out of the land, right down to the tiniest sprig of young heather that struggled up out of the stony ground beneath the towering heights of its full grown neighbours. The heads of the plants were bowed, the leaves curled in on themselves like ancient hands, wizened and gnarled with age.
There was not a single living creature in sight. The birds had long since flown away, seeking shelter in warmer climates to the south, and even the hardy ponies that frequented the moors were gone. The wind continued its lament, its voice the only sound in the silent, bleak landscape, a wandering ghost consumed by grief and loneliness.
Then, softly, another sound joined with the song of the wind. It was quiet at first, like the gentle rustle of the heather, a strange crooning sound unlike any made by bird or beast. Slowly, the song grew louder, echoing the sounds of the wind with its ethereal ringing. The sounds of the moor seemed to merge and swirl around it, creating an eerie symphony that rose and fell to some unheard rhythm. Something in the air had changed, the bleak aimless atmosphere replaced with something more tangent. Every plant, rock and root in this land knew this song; it was as much a part of the earth as they were.
A song once heard cannot be forgotten. A legacy once left cannot be lost.