. . . the staunch shiny star that refuses to fall from its perch.
I was eight and followed wherever light commanded . . .
Grace . . . kept by itself in the drawer of a bedside table. . .
Here there is flesh to spare, but never enough blood.
Insects have no sense of tragedy.
Hint of Spring by Allan Harbour
There are evenings when God walks in this field — yes, this one
The web pulses in the breeze — huge, white, glittering with dew.
Allan Harbour, artist in oils.