I’ve always liked graveyards. Not the sort of highrise blocks of niches with plastic flowers and laminated photos that you find in Spain, but proper British graveyards with grass and moss; where the slate and granite is so worn and weathered that you have to touch the stones to trace the names.

old graveyard at night
Continue reading “hallowmas”


snowdrops and old  tombstone

empty house
dust on the dressing table
cobwebs in her hair brush


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