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Doon the road

A small child is poking her foot into a patch of sticky tar on a narrow country road. The gooey bubbles are irresistible.

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Circling home

Three generations are looking out across the fields and woods. My father pulls on his cup of tea. His eyes are on the horizon, where the saddle between two distinctive hills frames the view.

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Silent sparks

Tired travellers under a sullen sky, we pass the sheds behind the taverna. Then an earthly shooting star appears. A firefly, looking for love.

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Hunting Country

When I was ten, a man cut off a fox’s tail and used it smear blood on my face. I had been ‘blooded’: a hunting rite of passage.

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