Frequently the woods are pink,hunched over, shy and nude,creeping round churned up fields. Carrion crows, grey as fading ink,pick at drowned worms, rudeand raucous as they wield sharp, curved beaks then sinkthem into mud, cackling a lewdcaw. Breaks in the treeline reveal the village church, a chinkof grey stone to lighten the mood,bobbing on the […]
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writing in north norfolk 