There are places that speak,
telling the stories of us and them
a village asleep loaded with dream
an oceann flicking its pages over the sand.
Eventually we reply,
a conversation of place and page over time,
inscribing the map so that each in turn,
might hold the line.

- - - - - -

The finals loom, not loom, they flood. They surround me, like creatures of dark mills, and cast shadows over my head. They are, indeed, dark days.

I was once told that having a degree meant that I had the world at my feet. I always believed it to be true. On the contrary, it seems as though, I now am at the feet of the world.

I scarcely believe it to be true that I have to now choose my life to what and where there are jobs. I cannot say, I wish to stay, because that wouldn't happen, and they would say nay.

Where will I be?