Midnight, July
We writhe with a rage to know the unknowable, blind to great masses that dance in dark orbits. And a soft, summer wind on a night beneath stars is no balm. From somewhere a whistle casts a line, a fragile camaraderie in a world fell silent, where white moth-wing is riotous and a spider's touch carnal. ©Andrew James Murray
City Jackdaw 
Yes, the touch of the Other is always carnal. Sometimes it is joyous, sometimes deadly!
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Michael, you have just given an accurate description of my wife 🙂 Uncanny!
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“And a soft, summer wind
on a night beneath stars
is no balm.”
My favorite passage in this poem…it resonates with me.
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I remember the night . . . sat in my back garden, looking up at the sky, wondering if there was life out there . . . my solitude broken by an unknown person passing the front of the house, whistling softly.
Therein lies inspiration 🙂
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I remember this from your book. So lovely!
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Thank you, Linda. Sorry for my delayed response!
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