I find this to be particularly true of bog holes. The spare beauty of the landscapes, the bleakness of winter skies in Ireland, the suggestion, (since they tend to be oblong, rectangular), of an ethereal grave. If I stop to look, I'm likely to find myself absorbed into melancholic thoughts.
Mute Michael laid out on water
shivers like a flag.
Fissures of sky rake him,
his mouth worms.
Night, extinguishing the bog cotton,
finds him alone
dressed in bottomless black.
Detail from painting by Elaine Leigh.