Incomers
Remember that first winter we loafed about by the puddle behind the post office, the one that was crusted over with grubby ice and bicycle tyre marks and two perfect imprints of duck’s feet? We bled our knuckles playing Jacks, hunkered down with our backs sliced against the granite wall, army green balls of sheep…
Puddled
In this puddle there is a beginning, a middle, and some steam. Not just any old steam but a thin volatile funnel of pearly mist that twirls up and eastwards towards the burnt out monastery on Blackheath Hill. Abigail, aged eleven and a half, stands in the centre of the puddle, the water so deep…
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SANDERLINGS 