Death March

1234,1234,1234,1234 Trumpet blares bass drum kicks and the seats at the front allow no hiding. Polite treats combine with platitudes and sherry and middle England’s Barrow of Sorrow, brought up from the allotment where beer waters beetroot and wine shallots. I forget my plate is made of paper and it crumples in my hand showeringContinue reading “Death March”