Where did they all go? Thickets of love and pain rustle in a dry light and skeins of corvidae traipse to a dusk roost.
Time is a flip book. Lift your dear hand and feel the pages purr as years fan by in their lost variegations
of green, gold, brown, and an old cat, white as a child’s Christmas, trots a careful way through his once kingdom.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in