As local as shoe leather, though laced a little differently I still feel the pull of aul boody, aul boy, a voice of ancient things
this impossible centre of England with the flow of Plantagenet of Watling of Nene and Welland where nothing happens but everything has
rich in silver willow and tannery stink still giving cause to think, to feel Clareβs fears as the inexorable tarmac is laid and each day passed as the hedged wren and dunnock begin to explain green and pleasant pains