Word from Wormingford
Posted: 21 Jul 2010 @ 00:00
Ronald Blythe mourns the loss of a knowledgeable dean
SUMMER rain. It falls, not for minutes, but for hours, beating the borders into submission, knocking the hollyhocks for six, dashing the scent from the roses. At first, it leaps up from the hard earth, but soon it penetrates. Its noise is like a distant army or motorway. A few birds cry against it, and the white cat, perversely, lies under a leaky tree with her “poor me” expression. I listen and watch from a high room, wondering what the dry linseed will make of it. Summer rain, ...
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