Being in England holds weight in my past, just as it will determine my future.
An old thread of blood drives thru me, from my mother’s womb.
We cannot prove it, but for a photograph.
A man in a scout’s uniform with the name printed below.
His face gentle, his eyes heavy, his expression uncomfortable, even morose.
M. B. Dukes.
A cold greeting out the door but when one has commited to walking, one must walk. So up the road, with many Sunday cars filled with shoppers, picnickers and car-windowed dogs enjoying the rushing breeze passed me as I made the phone-less brisk trek up to the Epping Forest South East border. I was briefly tempted by a sign to the left that said “daily home made food” but endeavoured to be true to my course.Read More
