Sheep shearing from the garden gate & haymaking in perfect weather. The sward is spread to dry, to be rowed up & spun out to dry more, before baling. The air’s scented with its sweet coumarin, lanolin from the sheep fleeces, roses, honeysuckle & lime blossom. There’s a June headiness I adore.
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In those semi-swallowed, feral churches of the county, ghost congregations gather for Evensong. An observation of twilight vespers. All phantom psalms and half-heretical green canticles. It's hard to know whether the Preces are said to the Almighty or the land itself. Maybe there's no difference.
Goodnight from Mary Reed, remembering youthful kisses and feeling a bit teary about all her lost what-if futures as she walks by the music leaking out of The Hole nightclub. Goodnight from John Pool, trying to sober up on Wimpy Bar coffee after Half-there folk glimpse. Goodnight from Hookland.
I promised you a book cover for Hookland Fragments Volume One at Midsummer and here it is:
