By:
Christina
Borg
Time passes slowly
And she reclines still
In the quiet of a room
Overlooking the garden
Where trees stand tall,
Reaching high
With grape-coloured leaves, she could crush in her hands, and make into wine
Above, the sky
Through which planes frequently pass
At night, their lights flicker in a deep oasis of ultramarine blue
Grasping at solace
Against loneliness
Yet you are alone
With your disquiet.
Our Members are champions of literature. Their support makes our engagement work in schools and prisons possible and they enable us to celebrate literature in all its wonderful diversity. As a thank you, we give them all the joys of a literary festival and book club rolled into one, all year round.
Our Members are champions of literature. Their support makes our engagement work in schools and prisons possible and they enable us to celebrate literature in all its wonderful diversity. As a thank you, we give them all the joys of a literary festival and book club rolled into one, all year round.