I walk in autumn's boneyards feeling more sympathy for the grave guardians than I do for the corpses in them. Time, weather and man are all their brutalisation. Many will speak for the dead, but few give voice to their faithful lithic lookouts. They need a union. – #DAKilroy, 1982

We make wild pilgrimage. Approach feral churches in green communion, feel the rub of primitive ritual against our bones. Our faith is fierce, our faith is in the land. We are not summoned by bells, but by a congregation of spirits abiding at the edge of memory. – #DAKilroy, 1982

Obviously should have been #DAKilroy … sigh, at least I didn’t provoke the wrath of Emily C. Banting.

Some buildings hold their shadows after sunset. They stretch and pace beyond the failing sun. Stalk corridors, assemble in former ballrooms in hope of a grand waltz. Creep wooden doors and walls overdressed for the dark. Shadows that are so eager to meet you. – #DAKilroy, 1982

England of the humming wires. England of the ghosted fields. England of the nephomantic sky. This is where my patriotism lives, not in its ragged flags, but in a land that knows its spectres. – #DAKilroy

We like to tell ourselves that time flows evenly, but we all have a history of convenient lies. Time has its slow eddies. It runs across some places so tardily a year might become a decade. Places where the walk of a hundred yards might take two hours to complete. – #DAKilroy

When I see wide way through a wood, walled with stone, I think only of futility and the coming of those feral days when the trees shall take back what was stolen from them. A tide of tangle and thorn is the future of this path. I feel it echoing back as I walk the now. #DAKilroy

We walk passed buildings that leak ghosts. We are window watched. We are scratched with shadows. A psychic toll is paid for our navigations in headache, in a pressing into the back of the neck. This is our phantom reality. – #DAKilroy #Ghosts

Let us walk the woods as feral possibility space. Let us walk the woods in hope of strange sights, fantastical encounters. Stories we can tell to those we love as an intimate folklore of hope that wonder is still abroad. That we still have places of constant magic. – #DAKilroy

In a week, the last flower offerings of a lingering summer will be gone. Their spot taken with displays of corn maidens, apples and pears from local orchards. A celebration of harvest, of the turning of the year. From field, allotment and garden, a pagan dressing. – #DAKilroy

As twilight is heralded in last acts of solar alchemy, spirits wake in the walls of St. Mary in the Meadows. They phase through stone in search of one final kiss of sun, one final bit of warmth before a lengthening night. You can hear them gently sigh, mutter their sorrows. – #DAKilroy

The land withers. Autumn is told in both the fading scars of drought and the gathering mud. Hooklanders call this blurred border of days harbrim. A time whenthey know that mists are coming to eat certainty and monsters feast to fatten ahead of hibernation. – #DAKilroy, 1982

Some trees are more than hedge anchors, landmarks in the lane. They stand out as guardians, green monarchs of their kingdoms. At twilight there is often a sense of them wishing to speak of what they have seen – whether to give a blessing or warning is hard to tell. – #DAKilroy, 1982

The day's last light dapples the lanes we walk towards home. Tonight they'll be travelled by spectres, Children-Made-of-Thorns. We know this, but don't make a fuss about it. It's never a good look to not be able to share the land, to delight in othering your neighbours. – #DAKilroy

The church that once stood atop Dedwick's tide-bitten, storm-bullied cliffs has long fallen to the shore. Yet bones from the graveyard still tumble down occasionally. Reminders that death is often disturbed, that the King-Under-the-Sea is always hungry for land. – #DAKilroy