Although I can see him still,The freckled man who goesTo a grey place on a hillIn grey Connemara clothesAt dawn to cast his flies,It’s long since I beganTo call up to the eyesThis wise and simple man.All day I’d looked in the faceWhat I had hoped ‘twould beTo write for my own raceAnd the reality;The […]

Two years ago I nearly began trout season with a murder. Had it not been for Ben, I would today be writing a blog about prison tattoos and the best shade of lipstick for an evening on D-block. The Rusty Cage: Ruminations on Life and Art in Attica. Thankfully, Ben had been there, and […]