Sometimes, at the moment of writing, the piece you have written seems wonderful to you. Then days or weeks or months later, you are not so sure. I have written a fourth piece that has gone up on Greyling Bay, and it is a piece that I think is pretty damn near perfect. I read it and read it and read it, and the words all seem right, and clever. And there is an ache in it that is so adolescent, and yet somehow bigger than that. And it is about my favourite poem - loved it when I found it as a boy and love it still: W B Yeats' 'She Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven'. I am so pleased this is out there where it can be read for free. Go read my 'Cor-Blimey Corinne'
