back in the bosom of La Belle France and with all this technology I should surely be able to write something of interest for anyone who might be reading it. Instead here’s a poem – written last year
crept slowly from the valley
a slithering grey dampness swirled
as it weaved its way among trees and tiles
enveloping all like a shroud,
sliding round rooftops and chimneys
sucking out colour, leaving
the grey mask
like death’s own face;
and when the wind followed
shuddering, it sighed
And now for something completely different….
the blue skies of Benidorm
and some creatures around our cottage
such a pretty moth!