woman who gracefully and sometimesgracelessly took us, an entirenation of squabbling super-market mums, plastic bags drooping sadlywith sunday roasts, potatoes readyto be pulled and plushed — and she sitsin front of the square tellycutting the vegetables and sometimes (shite!)her fingers, watching; lady clane ridesto the cathedral, smiling brightlyand shyly, lace lining her handsand skinny arms… Continue reading poem: lady clane
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 