This book is dedicated to my Scottish God, Odin.
Coming in thin, the man upon the hill, walking away from a mill
with what’s left, George, still. Soaked in dew, wearing boiled
wool, on the other side of being a bull, a dirk strapped to his
thigh, keeping dry, staring at a church, burnt.
“Sitting, waiting, wishing,” was he waiting for me maintaining all
that I see? Just waiting for me to realize I was he, also, in ruins.
“I am too stone to ruin.”
“We are a pair, you see, a rune.”
A wall bogged down, alone, out in the open on a sloping
grassy meadow with no roof or corner bracing, out of place
unable to move from our loam. We buried deep. What will buffer
thee?

About the author: Iona Costello is dead, Don’t bother looking for her in your head. We can’t find her …. Nostradamus is the next verge, part one part two with a merge. We found everything in her chest, Close to her crest. The dog still rests, His head upon her bed, looking at her like lead, With yellow gun shot eyes... Perhaps she is taking back her maiden name, Bringing back the claim to fame, from a maid in the den of The Sheriff of Lewis.