Sunday, 25 August 2013
All is not well in the woods of late. The cries of the buzzard are heard in the treetops. The grass is as yellow as an old moon and the taties as green as old grass. Even the moss on the roof is thin and dry, only nettles and brambles abound and flourish. The folks passing by hurry with eyes aside muttering dark tales of an unearthly beast sighted in the spinneys.