Spinning yarns

Spinning yarns

I sit at my great-grandmother’s knee on the porch of her old farmhouse. A tangle of wool sheared from her Cheviots sheep, dyed a bright yellow from sedge grass I gathered last fall, is wound loosely around my hands. She lifts the wool from my outstretched arms, twisting the yarn into a small ball of [...]

Better days

Better days

True is it that we have seen better days. Dark are the hours as our time draws nigh. Memories wane, bones rattle, blind eyes glaze, The glory of our youth belie. Mired amongst the coppice, Where the earth doth strive to reclaim, Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, There’s no one ‘cept self to blame.