My writing time needs to surround itself with empty stretches, or at least unpeopled ones, for the writing takes place in an area of suspension as in a hanging nest that is almost entirely encapsulated.

We are, each of us, our own prisoner. We are locked up in our own story.

One way of ending the poem is to turn it back on itself, like a serpent with its tail in its mouth.

Sometimes tradition is a way of keeping going.

When Sleeping Beauty wakes up, she is almost fifty years old

The time on either side of now stands fast.

Nature is a catchment of sorrows.