The following prose-poem was written a long time ago. The photo was taken in September 1993 in Dorset, England.

This is a photograph of me sitting by Hardy's statue. His enduring, heart-broken face is looking towards the street. My own face, pensive, faces the camera. The tree to the left hasn't begun to turn, and it towers, still green in September. My hair is longish; I'm bearded; I'm wearing a tweed jacket, my knapsack at my side. This is Dorchester, the town where Thomas Hardy left the human heart threadbare. The photo is a few years old. I look much the same though my beard is salt and pepper. I'm looking at this photograph late at night, far from Dorset. And I still believe the spirit can rise, rise and fall, without landing.

Deloney Reads Llewelyn Powys on a Saturday Afternoon

My stupid camera is stuck on an 18-second thing so I could only read a snippet of what I wanted to read. This would be the full text if I'd had the time:

"I appeal to youth, to boys and girls with senses uncorrupted, with senses fair and fresh. Do not be deceived, do not listen to the foolish talk of envious old women, defeated old men. The days of your youth are yours, the hours of your youth are yours, so few, so few. With concentrated purpose follow the deepest inclinations of your being, and snatch, snatch at happiness with passionate eagerness."

It's important to wash fiddleheads several times before boiling or steaming for at least fifteen minutes, even if you plan to sauté them later. They turn greener than any green you've ever seen. Briefly, briefly at this time of year they appear on the supermarket shelves like so many grasshoppers playing violins or green tambourines.