... long ago...

… long ago…

Peter Hunter

… there were times, along the narrow, shadowy and winding path that led to this place; like the Christmas chicken, hanging in the coal shed, its hackles sparkling whenever they caught the light…
… milk, still delivered in bottles - topped with rich cream that could be skimmed off and turned into a small knob of butter…
Bread was eaten fresh, straight from the oven in the bakery across the road from the church.
Things have been gained but far too many have been lost…
… and slowly, the light was tugged from the gentle pine veiled slopes, dragged by a fugitive sun setting beyond the black hills to the west…

Read … too late…
the tallyman… on Kindle

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