Completely crap blogger just now, too much in a dwam.
Popped in to the Tartan Bonnet last week to see what was happening and found the place alive with rumour and scandal as usual, all too exciting and lurid to appear in the public domain, apart from the King of Clatteringshaws appearing to be out of the closet and poor old Theosyphillis Neill being grilled by the social and having his bus pass taken off him. What a change in fortune: it doesn't seem any time at all since the man was sending taxis to collect cases of Chateau Lafite and spending a couple of grand on a night out in the Scandic Crown. Kizmuht, the Turks would say, and they are close enough to the Greeks for me to start all that again.
Reading the Magus, again.
When the wind blows
light breaks against the cypresses
and there is fire and marble,
a flame for the bull slayer
and shadows to dance the mystery.
In the temple
I take a little yellow flower
and, half embarrassed by my silliness,
leave some money by the altar,
just small coins,
but even from the car park
I see them glint from their fist of weeds,
picked out by the sun.