‘Is that so?’ said Mrs Morrison. ‘The roses in the churchyard are coming into bloom.’ She coughed again. ‘My husband’s brother cares for them,’ said...
Whispering death now moves in so stealthy, Hard white in flow over field and function The baton raised over fields so wealthy, Turning red and brown...
Gauzy veil of a wild crop in winter, Faint and dry as the lightest crunch of snow Stepping out in faith, land of the hinter Spiralling cobweb elegant...