For those of us who cut our teeth on William Butler Yeats and Gerard Manley Hopkins, there is very little being produced today that could really be said to ‘sing’. The metric arts have been driven out at sharpened points by a crowd of angry politicians.
Driven, of course, into the brooding fields and darkening streams that they came from. Fair enough. But we must be allowed to speak, Ans we can speak freely here, where the lyrical, the pastoral and the natural arts were born.
There will be no angry politicians here, only murmuring brooks and diffident winds unlikely to bring you any news from home.
So enjoy, wanderer. This road, this wood, this lonely dune was always your home in the end .