Black trees loomed up out of the greyness –
a wall of angry, threatening giants.
Wet mist smeared all surfaces with cold, clinging, vapourous slime.
Nothing moved in the still, suffocating surroundings,
Nothing except a single horse-rider –
cloaked in black to match the trees.
He surveyed the grey-blackness ahead,
concious of the trickles of wetness streaming down his clothing and face.
His black horse shivered and stamped in the damp cold.
It’s rider leaned forward and stroked the horse’s soaked neck –
It’s okay Bleak, we’ll find our way home.
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