Sometimes Peace Looks Like War, You Cannot

A Sea-green Sky: Lamps Blossoming White. This Is Marginal Land: Fields Of Strung Wire, Of Treadless Tyres In Ditches, Fridges Dead On Their Backs, And Starving Ponies Cropping The Mud. It Is A Landscape Running With Outcasts And Escapees, With Afghans, Turks And Kurds: With Scapegoats, Scarred With Bottle And Burn Marks, Limping From The Cities With Broken Ribs. The Life Forms Here Are Rejects, Or Anomalies: The Cats Tipped From Speeding Cars, And The Heathrow Sheep, Their Fleece Clotted With The Stench Of Aviation Fuel.

Why Are We So Attached To The Severities Of The Past? Why Are We So Proud Of Having Endured Our Fathers And Our Mothers, The Fireless Days And The Meatless Days, The Cold Winters And The Sharp Tongues? It's Not As If We Had A Choice.

God Takes Out Your Heart Of Flesh, And Gives You A Heart Of Stone.

I Do Myself Think That History Is A Set Of Skills Rather Than A Narrative.

I Once Stole A Book. It Was Really Just The Once, And At The Time I Called It Borrowing. It Was 1970, And The Book, I Could See By Its Lack Of Date Stamps, Had Been Lying Unappreciated On The Shelves Of My Convent School Library Since Its Publication In 1945.