Sublime

succubus,

firmament

Kay crawls up from under his hill, up through the claggy earth.

Drive on, past l’Observatoire de Haute Provence, where they say you can breathe the clearest, purest air in France, and head for the foothills of the Montagne de Lure. There, set in a bowl of lavender fields, you will find Lardiers, a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants. Their houses are bunched around the Mairie and the Café de la Lavande—the

Fortuitous

ruth

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year.

I was carrying a fragile treasure.