I'm going to read the two short poems that I have in the book, and I'm very honoured to be in it.
T dolls. On the royalty trips of Greenland.
Everyone took something down for the two year old who herself perched on someone else's back, carried a finger, measured puppets full of tea.
Vatican would be the church's name for its essentials, without which you can't go on.
I can't remember which of us took what on the first flight to England for small necessities to live on.
After Germany, improbably, unprecedentedly stubble kissed us all.
Me male, as well as my sisters, and said.
Dylan. I suppose we'll see them here no more.
And the second point these conversations draws on the passage from one of the wonderful naturalist books by Ian Neale,
the novelist and naturalist who is the father of Andrew McNeely.
Andrew's book on him, as is noted by Andrew himself at the end of this book and his his wife and daughter are here, we are all very pleased to see.
These conversations in memory of Ian Neal. It would have been about this time of the year that we watched the Fieldays near Macroom grow restless,
preparing to call out to the Canada geese, flying overhead to regions of thick rabbit ice far away from the lead schemes.
Kindly reclaimed stretches.