In the heart of my close friendI cannot see the sun setting, butI can see its warm gold tingeing a dowdy wood-pigeon which bobs on a green wave of foliage near the top of the graceful hornbeam, swaying lightly in the cool breeze of a Moseley June evening. Sipping wine on the terrace, half-listening to Hercule Poirot confounding Captain Hastings, I lean against the door while Telewest pumps its digital stream through the hi-fi bought on Constitution Hill, where the Indian man said It was terrible about Heather - I am sorry for your loss.
URL: www.mourne.org/hornbeam.htm |
