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On the tube that took me directly home / The station named after the Saint of Rome / Looked almost deserted, hardly a guest / Laid down their caps or anoraks to rest. / I myself, sporting wet assassins’ rags / And akimbo, rain soaked, brown bookshop bags.
Keir Batchelor
A son writes an honest letter to his dad from a very rainy London. This is a lyrical piece that invites us to think of longing and nostalgia. In those times when distances remain insuperable, words can paint a scene, recreate a feeling, bring the ones we miss closer. If you could reach someone with a letter, who would that person be?
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