Under a silent sentinel of the land, in the fading light of day: with the dark-grey clouds looming, the distant bay of a cow and screech of an owl: this is where I rest.
This green field guarded by black tendrils of wood. Old, gnarled, watching. Trees. Sinister as the shadow; naked and still. They hold secrets, sights unseen, ages past have faded while they stand. Still, watching.
The steady but random drip…drip…drip. It gives the darkness a bustle. Every creature seems to prowl, every dark thought creeps, every fear grows.
The wind carries a bite, a chill which brings fear. This barren scape of country holds malice in the darkness. Everything kept at bay in day emerges, creeps and grows.
This shallow hollow obscures all light and comfort, no twinkle of reassurance to be found. If my mind wandered, alone I would be – lost and in shadow.