Westermead: A Collection of Tales
The rushes rasp in ghost-fed breezes as seed-hungry finches chance the thistle's fangs. The bracken has gone gold and brown, the brambles heavy with plump berries. The days, warm as brewed barley, are etched with frost beneath a rusty moon. Eerie effigies are set about to honor the dead, whom, as the year decays, are wont to roam the countryside.--This text refers to theHardcoveredition.