The Literary Review, January 1st, 2002
After Lucretius I It happens from time to time, on days like this --in winter, when the air is cold and still, the boats at the harbour perched on their wooden stocks, the gaps between the houses filled with light-- it happens that I think of all the vanishings I learned about in childhood: that ship they found at sea, unanchored, blind, the table set for lunch, the galley filling with steam; the blank of the lamp-room at Flannan, where they found no sign of the men who were waiting to be relieved; the boy from a northern village, going out at daybreak, to get kindling for a fire, a line of f...
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