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.
8 comments:
try forming a romantic attachment to one of the younger royals ... either sex
Only one thing worse than being spied on and that's not being spied on...
Why not buy yourself an auburn Halloween fright wig?
Saw Heaney at Hay Festival two years ago. Tickets were £20. It was rumoured later we could have re-sold ours for £200. The tent - with seats for 2000 - was bursting. The idea of re-selling at the time never entered my head. The poetry was the man, and the man the poetry. A quiet civilised hour.
My concern is your absence, Missing the daily gift. Greetings from Canada.
I too am missing your fine words, also from Canada
Here is another Canadian waiting to read that you are well again. Don't let us down.
I now realise the addictive side of reading Blogs. The absence of yours with its wisdom and humour makes me feel that something is missing from my day.
Hope you return soon.
Alimary
I'm starting to worry, my friend. Hope you are better and off having fun forgetting your followers, including another Canadian here!
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