John Holloway

In the abyss of distance. You see it   blink at you, graven over our breakfast table, from the open   door where steam from porridge mists the peak of the holy mountain, or so

they term it, and I would not lightly   be heavy-handed over the old volcanic cone across that yawn   of bog-blossom, of bee-, of heat-filled emptiness, with sparse birds, and...