"Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage."
Excerpt from Sir Walter Raleigh's 'His Pilgrimage' to mark the unfolding of decade number
five on the ever narrowing path of N.K. With love and gratitude.
The thatched cottage, the dappled meadow, the ancient spire -
the rural contours of this museum isle
yield ample beauty and refinement.
Decency is sustained by a simple frame
of good manners, banter and tea.
But is this today an abode for the living,
as the land lies dormant and its inhabitants forget?
This island has been made a mausoleum.
The weight of disavowal has obscured the light.
Here, the English pilgrim walks,
with an aching heart and the company of ghosts,
a witness to the unraveling of a Godless land.
Being a walking question mark 