The
FREAK, pursued by the maddened troop, foamed at the
MOUTH. Trapped at the crumbling edge of the
CLIFF-top, he paused. Time to drop, to die. The nearing
TROOP, open-mouthed, watched him tumble, peaceful, without a cry.
[Not sure what day these words belong to, but only one writer has used them so I thought I’d go all out 19th century melodrama.
And, I didn’t want to deal with TAROT!]
These were the words from Feb 17, so were ready for poems on Feb 18, but the results have been coming in at a measured pace. https://dailyquordlepoem.com/?s=Cliff
I remember now…it was the Sunday and I didn’t do a quordle.