I Concentrate On The Lives Of Individuals

If The Garden Of Eden Really Exists It Does So Moment By Moment, Fragmented And Tough, Cropping Up Like A Fan Of Buddleia High Up In The Gutter Of A Deserted Warehouse, Or In A Heap Of Frozen Cabbages Becoming Luminous In The Reflected Light Of Roadside Snow.

I Can Remember Being In My Pram: Children Stayed In Their Prams Much Longer Then Than They Do Now. A Big Bouncy Pram With Black Covers And A Hood With Metal Clips That Could Trap Your Fingers. I Was Looking Up At My Sister Who Was Sitting On The Pram Seat, With Her Back To Me.

I Wish I Was Away In Ingo Far Across The Briny Sea Sailing Over Deepest Waters Where Neither Care Nore Worry Trouble Me

I Concentrate On The Lives Of Individuals Whom The Reader Comes To Know And Feel With Intimately.

A Problem With A Piece Of Writing Often Clarifies Itself If You Go For A Long Walk.