Harry Cory Wright

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This folly near my mother’s house must have once been quite a thing. Iron stone solid and commanding the view down the Wey valley. Now it is hemmed in by the oaks and beeches, and coated in ivy and virginia creeper that sprawl through the gaps, in through the windows and cloak it with a darkness that hoods the thing at dusk, elevates it again to something forceful and commanding… but not perhaps in a good way.


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