And so the cuffs fall away, rusted As those delicately wrought silver handles That bear your weight I never asked to be your captive And you my gaoler It just happened
Leaving for Shade in the Choppingchurch rush hour had little effect. Three cars comprised the longest queue I encountered and only because they were following a mobility scooter.
My flat was one of three within a large semi-detached property, and though it hadn’t the most cordial of demeanours, it was clean and, for the first time since I had set foot in Choppingchurch, it f