Step out with me — the rocks and the waves are call­ing and I have some­thing to show you. Step out with me — the ocean is singing to me, songs of spiral shells, seahorses, anemones and brine. Step out — you’re safe with me. It’s almost mid­sum­mer, I know, but you’ve…

I My daugh­ter is stretched out on white sand, feed­ing the ocean. She says she is taming the sea — its wild­ness nibbles at her fin­gers. We have seen no dol­phins today, nor any stin­grays nor whales nor any­thing bigger than spiky brown coral that has washed up on the…

Rough-cut paper tells you it’s a first edi­tion and the must takes you back — Years spent, nose down. Ink-smudges and foun­tain nibs, the romance Of Umberto Eco and sharp-edged medi­eval scores. There’s a deep Con­nec­tion through time to these com­munit­ies of scribes,…

Long fin­gers and silver rings; that rhythm; that flight Of fore­finger down a string; that tap of the fin­ger­tips Against the golpeador — one of your legs is crossed over The other and it all dis­ap­pears but for the music. That slight frown on your brow as your fingers…

His mother painted it, in another life. It is small — less than half a metre across, not quite square. At first glance, it’s noth­ing but greys, as if it could be Some 19th cen­tury indus­trial city­scape or Soviet town, But closer in, you see touches of white and blue,…