George Sand to her lover Chopin, in a verdant dream of summer, bred in winter, on the austere Island of Obscurity, Majorca:


Yvonne Kiddle is doing a doctorate in Early Modern studies and, in any left over moments, slowly bringing to a close the novel she has been working on for some time.


by Yvonne Kiddle

Should we forget to choose to run between the fragrance of the notes which divine us on this turning summer night, when the skies, unlike themselves are weeping, and should your hands, cut on the verisimilitude of sleeping glass in verdant rhyme of rhythm sense the song, honour the silent tune, weave the bold, prognosticating loom around us, take up the stringent web and bleed colour into the needing haunt of life that seeds this mortal steep, this rare unfold, this reeded dream, this deep unmeditated bloom of sweet unsupple


then I will walk under the seamless moon these tideless stars this sacred wound of life and ask of you how it is that we shall ever see such love even begin to understand us –

Were I a poet, I would take your precious hands with their blessed wounds of a thousand uncompromising flowers

and sing you