The narrator gets serious.

... ignore that moaning sound. It’s nothing but the wind howling down the chimney.

A Poem

This is a true story, it happened in 1958, and it still makes me smile ((-;

short and sour... like some drinks...

‘The hardest thing to see is what is in front of your eyes.’ - Goethe

We search for it

It is for me the breath of almost-touch peculiar to feathers; you describe burning and blood. They are stooping grey greatness, magnificent, and yellow desert is a given; desert with an edge

There is nothing of me here; only response and request; times and places; an odd draft of something long out of date. I do not keep everything I should; you are disappeared, even that photograph of us with the Tyne bridges glowing. It is old now. And gone.

Our pilgrimage, this - our last ditch attempt as if, by some miracle, this would make you well again.