How poets work

Anthony Wilson

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We had been in the new city for two months. The house we had bought was even more of a wreck than we had remembered it, surprising us with all manner of rot which had not shown up in our survey. Our lives centred on responding to our builder’s ever more concerned estimates, working and sleeping. We had met only a handful of people, mostly friends of our friends Rupert and Sue Loydell. (We knew our builder intimately.) It was time for a break.

Rupert rang to say the Penzance Arts Club had got a deal on for Halloween. ‘We’ll show you St Ives. The Tate, Barbara Hepworth. Grab some fish. You know you want to,’ he said.

Storms were forecast, but that did not deter us. ‘Ignore it,’ Rupert said. ‘No one knows the weather in Cornwall.’ Amazingly, he proved to be right. We walked on the beach, ate…

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