Here is my mirror. The page does not reflect what is. It is controlled and contains what ought to be believed. Unenchanted mirrors too distort and distract but all
Pray for my son, who has lost his way. For you, a herd. A herd so plump, That news of their rotund rumps, Would be heard as far away as India, for You are more scared to me.
Fuschias and rose-hips in ball gowns of dearest pink. Midsummer perfumes and mulled midwinter drinks, The machair with of its wild-flower brooches, Pumpkin scented joy as Hallow’en approaches.