No one to the best of my knowledge has hacked my voice mail or listened in to my telephone calls. Where have I gone wrong?
The poems of Seamus Heaney which I have been reading with admiration and pleasure are resonant with the sounds of metal crashing into earth, the splash of cold water, the ring of stone struck and carved. Wet and cold places, weathered human features, sinew, timber and steel. Images which hold firm in familiar landscapes. They are enduring images of people and places which endure.