The magic came At evening tide As fissures of fire Cracked honied skies And sun-warmed rocks Were all aglow As floating words Rode windless air I stepped into the garden And felt a charge
What is the cure for head fuzz? The stealth mist that seeks And cloaks the under-achiever Reducing them to non-believer The fog which bellows forth To choke the thought The best ideas
Aunty Joan looked old, impossibly old. She became old overnight when her only child Julian had taken his own life aged just seventeen, that was almost twenty five years ago.