A distant storm lingers from dark clouds, the living backdrop for Bac Mor. Advancing with the march of a fox through woodland the rain shrouds pelt the golden ocean, turning it to obsidian, and back again.
Precious metal thought-lines singing across the cosmic divide, willing a world that we cannot yet see.
Grey and gold, the colours that carry the aroma of what has been, meld and splice the past to the future. Tales, long forgotten, twist their gnarly path deep into the sighing sands.