Out of my window, across the gardens, not a leaf stirs, just a butterfly or two, white against the green. Someone is using a hammer in the distance, the sound
The young man stopped to catch his breath, he was exhausted, not so much from the pack he was carrying but from the fasting and the long drive. He looked up the
Stuck in Earl’s Court in a car, in traffic. Nothing moving but crankshafts and fan belts in the blistering heat. I see a man on a doorstep, stained from the day’s toil.
Who will go down, into the darkness, where the real treasure is buried? People don’t go there voluntarily, because real treasure is buried under real pain. People go because