In Easgann Wood
Robin Robertson, 18 February 2016
“... For Don Paterson Rain works the road; its grey hand passing over and over, in waves: lashing, stotting down. A stour-wind’s in the trees, churning their heads, and the sky’s full of leaves and the sky is raging: it will not subside and will not cease, and will not be consoled. As thunder brings the toads so rain draws worms from the ground, the rapt god to this bedroom window, this house of panic, of closed mouths, a bird trapped in every room ... ”