A doctor's widow rang the school:
Could we make use of his old skeleton?
Perhaps we could collect? (His name
is Marcus, by the way.) Fog had
gripped the common, stopping all the buses.
The long box rubbed against my leg,
yet all the weight of him was on
my shoulders as I felt the soberness
pall bearers must feel, humping him.
Quite suddenly, a face, as if
from a dark window looking out at me.
Good evening sir, what have we here?
His smiling features rearranged
themselves, faced by my whispered confidence.
Cold decency would not allow
his wish to look inside, not in
a public place... but in the privacy
of, say, his station (half way home
for me), that would be different.
We struggled with the box in his small car.
His sergeant took a different view.
No corpse this, constable, not what
you might call genuine remains... Look here,
his joints is wired together, see?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...