Love Letter to America – by A.M. Hickman
Imagine a country where the bones are good.
Like an old house with hand-hewn beams and cross-cut timbers the likes of which no sawyer sells anymore imagine a country that is strong and gorgeous. A country where the old stone ruins stand like stanzas of a tale that can never end; where the curtains of moss hang weeping above the crumbling slate gorges, and fishing boats rise in the morning tide as harbingers of peace and sanity. Imagine a country with the grandest of porches, where stiff-lipped aunties chortle and drawl over the foggy whisky glasses and knotweed snarls around the eaves and shingles a country whose flag s own bones lay like rows of heavenly sweetcorn beneath galaxies which tell tale of a benevolent artist of a God.
A pious thought, to be sure.