Among my Father’s gifts that keep giving I see less and less of the living. I find art that will never, be given to us again ever. Blue plaques and statues confirm their passage. Blues and bad news can’t hide
I remember well that sweltering summer. Sky bright at 1 am, no breeze to blow the dark in, blackout blinds and fans whispering. Still sleep was difficult, years before whale-song tapes and Victor Meldrew. Though we had our own versions.