My wellington boots were complemented by fellow walkers taken by surprise by the fast incoming tide, that spread over the manicured footpath. By chance, I reply.
Imatz reads her Bombay tiffin poem. I close my eyes. I am there at VT station, can see the food carts the ragged skinny stiffing men, I can taste the home made pickle. Hear ‘only’, at the end of sentences.
1977 been and gone.
Mary Howe, a strawberry blond, a whiff of America in Aldeburgh. Such hair.
Practicing. Girls, in a cellar, sofas, dark, taking it in turns to be the man. Tongues finding tongues. Until that point. Never talking about it.
Paul Deakin – my favourite. Irish, story telling, no preamble. The poems doing the talking. The Boy fro Belarus. Oh not not athletics in hotel room in some far off place. And this one for Naomi Jaffa. A perfect portrait of the Wentworth: two concurrent parties, a christening and a 90th birthday.
Is there any one here without Parkinson’s?
Great reader, slow deliberate voice. Star supermarket. Hedgehog like in hospital, a touching ode to nurse.
Kalikellett 