Morning at Cwm Ivy
From the kitchen window, Jean Griffiths watched a figure scuttle down the hill towards their house. As he neared, and the dawn light softened, she recognised the tall, shabby figure. Watcyn, his name was. Not a close friend of her husband, Glyn, but Watcyn farmed land owned by him and they were on friendly enough…
The Seven Stars
This time there was no denying it. The previous week had been just what he’d dreaded, and demanded. As the bus slid past pavements, between street lamps, bus stops and bins, London appeared crisp and frozen, a dull glow on its concrete. People almost sliding on their way to work. He realised that his teeth…
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Work of Words 