&

And so the river continues to hurry past our house at a frightening speed whilst millions upon millions upon millions of airborne dandelion snowflakes float around serenely, just above the surface.

***

I am writing an essay about Patrick Kavanagh, but I keep reading the poems which are in no way related to what I am supposed to be doing.

Wet Evening In April

The birds sang in the wet trees
And as I listened to them it was a hundred years from now
And I was dead and someone else was listening to them.
But I was glad I had recorded for him the melancholy.
- Patrick Kavanagh