|
I do not feel like being touched right now. The seven year old is sprawled all over me and I'm having to steel myself not to snap at her.
__________________
'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
|