A Reader depriving herself of enjoying profound writing – not mine – I must add.

Asked a lady, who reads a lot – well if you call having a Kindle on the go, even when relaxing over a drink: reading – to have a look at The Knowledge Seekers & The Land Of Cudhabeen, proof copy, and give me an opinion.

She glanced page flickeringly at the contents. “Don't read poetry! Can't understand it!”

I felt like saying – well I didn't understand breathing air, while in the womb – but I soon copped on.

Imagine – missing Heaney's We have no prairies/To slice a big sun at evening-- I can see the picture of brown bog prairies just from that.

Heaney inspired me to disagree and write: That Blackthorn Month, which includes the lines –

They kept moving, skulking away from even the dim street light,

back into the tavern glare;

pulling her a creature of the brown black midland bogs,

dark prairies under the night sky, into the bright illumination

squeezed by turbines from its heart-turf.

What is amazing is that the lady is from Wales. So maybe she is from the village Dylan Thomas wrote Under Milk Wood about.

He called it Llareggub – and if you read it backwards you can discern my sentiments exactly.