Visa – a poem by Claire Dyer
That last day of the Festival it rained – huge, hot, summer rain; it fell like songs. And she’d left her papers in London, so he drove her there, shouting mostly. This is not pretty, […]
That last day of the Festival it rained – huge, hot, summer rain; it fell like songs. And she’d left her papers in London, so he drove her there, shouting mostly. This is not pretty, […]
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