The old stone poet.
The bust of the poet Rossi sits just outside the kitchen in my garden. My Grandfather spotted him alone and waiting for a reluctant bus somewhere outside of Brightlingsea, on the East Coast one day. He decided that a journey home in his Bentley would be preferable to whatever other fate may have awaited him.
I wore the undignified and atrophied leather hat that sits upon his head when I was in my late teens, it covered my skull of ubiquitous boho length hair and a poorly rendered sense of self-esteem.