In mid- winter, the Headland is a haunted place:
Where spectral longings hover like wounded angels,
Where soft silence lies as deep as December snow,
Where loneliness hangs, and lingers, like icicles;
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It appears to be a very spiritual yet bleak place to incite poetry from one's heart and soul.. A more than fine poem for any reader to read with warts and all then bestows hope. AFS and bestowed and thank you Dominic for sharing. Take care and I wish you well.