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Our neighbor Sam is in his mid-seventies. He takes things quietly, enjoys a chat where our two gardens converge at a corner of the lambing paddock that unfolds beyond our shared wire fence and, regularly in summer, Sam is partial to a few cooling drinks.
Here's a suggestion. In order to halt the seemingly inexorable destruction of the humanities in our secondary schools, we should immediately sack any senior Education Department bureaucrat who has an MBA. Or perhaps they can be forced to reapply, unsuccessfully, for their old jobs. They like that kind of thing.
They follow a star, stirring light in their hearts more than the sky, to the margins, where even goats lose their footing. They make a silent journey, growing in hope that the child within and the Child without will recognise each other.
Peter, I gave you such handsome possibilities, had your face shining like a saint, and yet still, on this third occasion, you can only find a lie.
The one on the left, wearing crimson tights, promises the world, probes with his pitchfork for hidden desires, sports a prehensile tail able to wrap around your mind ... his counterpart, in snowy alb, meditates on your right shoulder, sending into your soul's bloodstream a thirst for peace ...
In Rembrandt's painting, the risen Christ .. wears a jaunty hat ... So roguish! .. So impious! Impish, even! .. He has come to greet his girlfriend .. Mary Magdalene
The legacy of the Felton Bequest