Sally Thomas

One morning, as the four children and I prepared to start the school day, I consulted the saints’ dictionary, as I habitually do, to see whose feast it might be. That day there were two feasts: those of St. Damasus and St. Daniel the Stylite, the latter of whom particularly captured everyone’s . . . . Continue Reading »

A payload of people phoning home: their ghost voices linger, caught on tapes, rewound, rewound, as if listening could summon them back into themselves. The last hope’s supplanted now with clinging to a missed call, replaying it, imagining words” but what?”equal to the worst dream, . . . . Continue Reading »

Narrowboats I love the ones most obviously lived in: bicycles and pots of lavender arrayed on a roof, a stub“chimney gusting coal smoke into the blue remainder of a wintry day, a cat at the window watching through curtains as the world on shore flows past it, full of prams and slow old men . . . . Continue Reading »