“The robin brushes me at dusk. Our good bones fail. We leave no mark. His voice, she writes, was clear and quiet. I hear him singing in the dark. (“Edward Thomas’ Daughter”)” — Alison Brackenbury Copy Share Image
“The robin brushes me at dusk. Our good bones fail. We leave no mark. His voice, she writes, was clear and quiet. I hear… — Alison Brackenbury Copy Share Image
