‘Honeymoon’   from the memoirs of Helen, widow of the poet Edward Thomas   They fled, by train, to a poacher Edward named ‘Dad’. His own father made the Civil Service, rather than risky Dad’s wood-cottage. Green lit thatch like oaks, the emerald sheen of pheasants’ necks Dad wrung, unseen. Helen woke…

        Chance: a dream   Yes. It was you. From its small source my heart rushed like a flooded beck. But would you lead a writing course? Or choose a tweed with purple check? The others sat, to write and learn. It was too late to learn. Instead I wandered out of your…