Monday, 3 February 2014

Sore Ailing

The almighty hand be surely turned agin us and ours. Be plagued wi mould inside and out all be covered wi dankness and dire green crusted slime. I be taken bad with the twitchy sickness and canna sleep a wink o nights for the shaking and skin slipping. Can scarce get a grip of the quill to pen this note for the shivers in the finger bones. The waters rise and rise at the door and we seen the first of the frogs even before the month was out. The fruit of the apple tree lays a rotting on the sward with the crows fighting to the end wi the buzzard for the windfalls. Soon all will be wiped and washed away into the ceaseless torrents.