A Strange Hatching Once there were other gardens, other plots, Other clots of clay. The old gods remembered. Cast from their temples, stripped of tribute and gilt, They kept their camp beside the pagan Nile. Then they beheld a land of light where nothing hissed, Nothing slithered or slipped, Nothing crawled or slunk through sedge and reed. The old gods smiled darkly. The maker had forgotten scales, Forgotten fang and feather, Forgotten fin, fluke and claw, Forgotten the sly

Outposts on the Edge of a Haunting By speech and by text we launch our raids against the unknown, yet never succeed in capturing what we pursue. Such expeditions are doomed from the start: there is nothing, no one, to seize. Only a ghost, a rumour haunting our stations at the frontier of a vast territory stretching behind us. Lately there has been talk of strange sounds arising in the in-between spaces, in the gaps between outposts we call words. But when we li