This is not very good but meh :/

                                                                       
                                                                       A nook

           

Trees.

So wistful as they stand.

Amongst the shadows, the rains and blazing sun, reaching out to me as I entered one of their callow shades.

Their branches almost restraining themselves, preventing to touch me as if scared they would harm my darkened form. I could see nothing, just the most blazon green, entwined in a vast canopy way above my head.

Thick, and yet not thick enough to prevent the ever so filtering sun light that fell across my face, to warm my cheek bones and give my pale face, an almost eerie and translucent look.

White lichen I saw, gathered across the bark of the trees that surrounded me, the white of this organism almost looked as though it were either the crumbling clothes of old beings left, to stand still, petrified forever, or maybe a gift of colour.

Immaculate as it was, I was sure no lichen should ever be viewed as immaculate and yet, there it was scattered across the bark to compromise and yet balance their perfect harmony the trees held.

I stepped forward to the opening of the clearing, I could almost taste the warm,woody scent, besprinked with the occasional moss like scent, and the smell of the wet, the damp, after a hard rain.

                  

 Graves.

Their grey bulky forms cast around me.

Words, prose in many different italics floated toward my eyes, overwhelming me with the sense of hopelessness, and yet deep inside, contentment.

I carefully shifted, attentively sidestepping each grave, taking in each art, the graves held, whether it be a sculpture or the most beautiful sounding farewell to a love one, a conclusion of a life lost.

I stopped as I found a gate way covered in a stone shelter, diamond shaped, with the most delicate, seats carved of stone I had ever seen, so singular and yet pronounced, as if begging to be used, to have some history to their lonely

existence.

My feet echoed slightly as I passed though this artistic and yet marvelling simple gate way, and began t study the building in front of me.

                           

  A Church.

Built as exquisite as a small cottage, and yet as powerfully held in its ambience, as the Mines, that once held the most sort after metals.

It seemed protrude slightly as though begging to be set free, to be not abandoned as it seemed to always be so, but to be enslaved by those it craved, to be full of the life and worship it was built for, to give hope to those who needed it, to let the ones who needed to weep, let go of emotion, to do so, and be no saint for it. And yet as I walked around its mossy shell it seemed empty, as if a left over, of what once was.

Something, caught my eye, as I once again walked to the front of the door, a grave. Yet this grave had the most moving and yet most sinister of artistry. A boy, perhaps? Carved onto the shape of a Celtic cross, arms and legs, at a seemingly painful, graceful stance, spread out upon the wide cross that bore it. A Tear, one tear. Unexplained, indecisive ran down my cheek, warming and yet stinging my face, giving me reason enough to leave this place. As I left, for sure that I would not want to find my way back to this place, I saw something that made joy swell up in my face, made my eyes brighten and for sure my heart gladden.

         So poised and peaceful a single family of swallows, quietly chattering amongst themselves, however, they seemed to belong there,

  As I left the way I came I felt as though six eyes were examining me, as if to not to see if I were any threat, but as if they meant to guard, to protect me, as I left their home, their sacred nook in the Cornish countryside.