Quieter moments

This is a poet.

His name is Tony Curtis. He comes from Dublin and tonight he was in our village for a reading of some of his poems. His car almost gave up the ghost getting here from Fife, and his journey became a marathon through snow, hail and other nasty stuff. At one point, he said, the road disappeared as made his way to the Island.

He arrived, ate some soup, and began to play his guitar quietly to himself before people started arriving and the event got underway.

He told stories of the sea, of his father, of mice and of poets in slow motion. He sang soft songs of autumn leaves and winter in Tibet.