There’s a place near my house where a stream twists through a little gully, and an old, ruined car sleeps in a bed of earth and leaves. To the questions one asks it, it has no answers; only secrets.

There’s a gnarled old tree, the home of an ancient spirit, encircled by snowdrops.

There’s a house draped in ivy, long abandoned by people ā€¦

ā€¦ but a tree has wandered inside and made itself at home.

What else lives here?

In this wild place where time sits heavy, growing weary, at times stopping altogether, there is magic in the trees.

This post is dedicated to my sister Rachel – visit her at gullsofbrighton – who knows this place better than I, and has shared its magic with me.

(She is, in fact, a fey spirit who can sometimes be seen sitting in the tree inside the house.)