WINTER ' FOURTEEN
he is behind me and I will think of him no more. Already he is slipping out of memory like water escaping from
a stone only to be lost in the ground. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Soft light on the froth of the sea. Soft froth of thought and sound. The world is an audible bell. And that
gull also – he of sound and echo and soft swish? Bell and bell-buoy. A music for transcription. Mine will be the
transcribing. Soft, softly now. Low light and far light. What sound has light? I have lost, I have gained. Goodbye,
goodbye, goodbye.
The stag has cleared the thicket and recovered the sword from under the stone. The stag has cleared the
thicket and is n