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Sweet Thames

Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms, Which some brave Muse may sing to ages following, Upon the bridal day, which is not long:       Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. –Edmund Spenser, “Prothalamion.”

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On Martin Drove End

On a bicycle—and they rarely lie—down Martin Drove End it seemed as if the Wiltshire Hills winked as I rode past. Cradled w/in grassland waves the lambs bleated me into Blake’s epigraph: “Dost thou know who made thee …?” etc. […]

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A drawer you left open invited dead parents to visit demanding that you tidy up. Or it may be a promise unfulfilled or maybe the clue to a crime, or a prompt to mend your ways and reform. Suddenly, you […]