The longbow, the instruction in and of, was once integral to (I've read in books) a young man's education. Knights, old by half my age, with knotted fingers, eyes faded, would lead the jacks to the quiet wood, the wild boar acre, where the yew trees grow, where centurions and vikings before drew blood, marking … Continue reading Where The Yew Trees Grow.
She'll claim it to be a tune, but this just cannot be true. Ono coughing on a spoon in a bat cave, with the flu.
The dogs, marking sand with brief print, ancient scratch-language, lengthen and, boundless, plunge at the cones of surf, smashing them, barking. * A lone figure travails the blown beach. He drags a suitcase. He looks up from his feet and seems surprised to find another living here and, as we pass, I see that the … Continue reading The Empty Benches.
nickreeves 