The drizzle merged with the mists and the low hanging clouds and clung to

Filigreed by fern, boundaried by birch and wondered upon by willow, your gloves reach

Seen from the old graves of the Priory, a curtain of Irish mists thickened

The small quarry wood doesn’t have a name. Not one that I know anyhow,

I've waited many years to step foot in the hallowed, haunted natural cathedral that

Winter's teeth holds the North by her silver locksWaiting to release her when the

Tanglewood. It's a woodland, or rather an old conifer plantation that has tied itself

Bats befuddle my brain. I just can't comprehend how they work.Ok, so we all

 I'm always drawn to the dark places that hunker down in the undergrowth. Show