Charles Robinson, 1911
I smell of clean rocks and the grey lichen caught in my bristly fur. I am heading for the pines, down, downward I go towards the tree line - slipping a bit now - hold on, hold on.
Sliding down scree... mountain ridge to col the fast way. The others are ahead. They wait, yawn, red tunnels, white portals.
I can see them scratching. Look, one lifts his head. Small, far below, but clear I can hear his half tone whine escape... that'll be Baldor.
He is, they all are, blood belly full, so no fear. Gather in your cloak as we pass into the trees, no threads for opportunistic Ariadnes to wind and spin and give to men. We're free.
***Sandy is a fellow MA student at Sussex. A talented poet, short story writer and graphic novelist, Sandy is also a compassionate and intellectually generous friend with a fruity laugh and a passion for Ted Hughes.