Forget horses. Today it is wasps and rats.

Yes, it's a new year but I'm still reading poems from the old window.

Thoughts from the reading window.  

The first three or four lines of a poem are make-or-break territory.

The reading window is open. The envelopes are stacking up.

 ‘Is it true – what Shelley writes me that poor John Keats died at Rome of the Quarterly Review?’ [Letter from Byron to John Murray, 26 April 1821]

There are many ways.