Between the misted hill-forts and flint mines of Albion, and the hard-strung horses and binarybred-bulletin shocks of the Gypsy present, there’s a place where the living and dead might have difficult souls. Up the track from the broken shacks and bloodied bluebird tattoos are the splintered traces of bad pasts: stallions bolting, peachy dawn punch-ups, old tribal terseness and thumbs splitting innocent white hearts of hazel.
Damian Le Bas’s poetry comes from this place that doesn’t exist – come and hear him read from a selection of his works.