Wassail, traveler, and welcome to The Gable Grey -- a place of retreat, of renewal, and of resistance: a tree-shaded refuge in Dark Times. Now pass the threshold, and rest from journeys! For a cold wind is blowing; and here, if you wish, you may hear tidings of the world without...
Sunday, September 5, 2010
S.O.S., New Blog
That's Same Old Shit. I've created a companion blog to the Gable Grey, unimaginatively titled Leaves from the Gable Grey. It will house what passes for my fiction these days, or at least what I venture to throw out there.
Whiles carried o'er the iron road, We hurry by some fair abode; The garden bright amidst the hay, The yellow wain upon the way, The dining men, the wind that sweeps Light locks from off the sun-sweet heaps -- The gable grey, the hoary roof, Here now -- and now so far aloof. How sorely then we long to stay And midst its sweetness wear the day, And 'neath its changing shadows sit, And feel ourselves a part of it. Such rest, such stay, I strove to win With these same leaves that lie herein.
-- William Morris, from "The Roots of the Mountains"
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