What Is The Ultimate Impulse To Write?

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.

But That Isn't My Life. I Have Said Many Times I Don't Want To Be Considered One Who Once Flew Fighters. That's Not Who I Am. I Devoted The Subsequent 50 Years - More - To Writing.

I'm A Frotteur, Someone Who Likes To Rub Words In His Hand, To Turn Them Around And Feel Them, To Wonder If That Really Is The Best Word Possible.

Sometimes You Are Aware When Your Great Moments Are Happening, And Sometimes They Rise From The Past. Perhaps It's The Same With People.

Love Must Wait; It Must Break One’s Bones.