Having grown accustomed to my garden’sentropy, its law of diminishingreturns, I saw no reason why this morningshould be any different, less barren.For years this corner had yielded nothingsave failed rhubarb, withered silverbeet.This cycle of death, I reasoned, should repeatuntil soil should die and sun should shrink.My friends reported miracles; I smiledin vain solidarity – atContinue reading “Didymus: An Easter poem for the Doubting Thomas in us all”
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The Consolations of Writing 