There’s a good 2,000 left on the tyres but the back box is blowing and your pads are right down.
“It’s coming back. The city’s coming back. Seen some bad times but it’s coming back.”
the ghosts of soaring adventure and almost-blind bravado rest in the memories of this tarmac field
Evensong – a service of evening prayers, psalms, and canticles, conducted according to a set form, especially that of the Anglican Church.
Powder scratches across the blue morning
I’ve got a list of the discs that set fire to my heart – an alphabetical memory of the tracks that shake my senses – thumbing through clicking plastic, until the thrill.
I don’t often see the old crowd these days, and the beer’s always flat but It saves me cooking when I get back
Remember that barbecue we had out on the yard, the summer before the skies closed in, and that little boy on the bike stopped and stared at us.
Took it over from his old man, but it was never really the same. They reckon a supermarket’s bought it.
We’ve been lucky with the weather