. . . the staunch shiny star that refuses to fall from its perch.
Here there is flesh to spare, but never enough blood.
He mounts Ego. That winged ass.
The sky is indigo and indignant.
Everything comes to the river at some stage.
Done in oils. “Luna Blue” by Allan Harbour.
There were words straight as corn,
Later in the evening, a Candlelight Service . . . .