11 January 2014


Before we can start scraping off the wallpaper, all the books have to be packed away into boxes. I am surprised at how uncomfortable this makes me feel. The bookshelves and I are unable to meet each other's gaze, ashamed at the bare truth of what we have suddenly become.

winter trees     nothing to read but my palimpsest Self 



  1. Just stumbled into your blog from Writing Our Way Home, where they featured a small stone from you today. Your words, and especially your photos of the Pembrokeshire coast, are so sad and mysterious and lovely. Gorgeous stuff.

  2. Oh yes, I can see these tinyhaibun working well for you.

  3. Thanks for the message Mark, will email ST. Having a break from Twitter btw...