The ripening fruit hangs from the tree,
The spider offers to the fly
It started well: she held her wrists for tying
The house illumined by the sun, the rainbow on the horizon,
1 I know we will not live long enough
Stones. 1 I cannot see my misshape in others’ eyes
“Only fine claret and old roses” he wandered, secateurs in hand, from bush
When all that’s left of me is ash and words
. The Task What would you do
Ministry of the interior Why does this matter?
After the painting by J.W.Waterhouse
The migrant butcher bird or shrike
The mayfly dancing on the stream