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January 15th, 1908 (Dunwich)

by Edward Thomas 

 
Oh Dunwich is beautiful. I am on a heaving moor of heather and close gorse up and down and ending in a sandy cliff about 80 feet peropendicular on the black, peat-strewn fine sand below. On the edge of this 1 1/2 miles away is the ruined church that has half fallen over already. Four arches and a broken tower, pale and airy. Just beyond that the higher moor dips quite flat marsh with gentlest rises inland with masses of trees compact and dark and a perfect huge curve of foamy coast up to the red light at Southwold northward. In the other direction, just behind us, the moor dips to more marshes with black cattle dim and far off under white sun, and three faint windmills that work a sluice and then trees - inland more gentle rises with pines. No hills (unless you lie down in a dip of the moor and fancy the moorland as part of a Welsh 'black mountain').

(From a letter to Gordon Bottomley.)
 
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