The walkers are thrilled. “Oh look, a heron amongst those nodding bulrushes! Get a photo.”
The proud garden owner is furious. Her koi have disappeared from the immaculate little pond. Herons are such vermin.
The heron flaps lazily from feast to feast, caring for her young and simply staying alive.
Rosie Douglas has been writing all her life, just for fun. She was born in the East End of London, England and although she says she hates London, she keeps getting drawn back there time after time
She is robed in green velvet, her tresses seaweed in the spindrift. Her lips pour forth songs and laments. Buffeted by storms and bathed in blood, still she welcomes strangers to her door to share peat-warmed poetry, potatoes, stout and good craic. She is gentle generosity. Her name is Ireland.
Rosie has been writing for fun all her life. She is from London, England, a city she hates – yet she is continually drawn back there.
The story was so immersive she sat on the floor of the mobile library to read.
Unaware, it drove to the next location.
By the time it returned to her street the following week she had finished the whole of the fiction section. Who needs food when you have books?
Rosie Douglas has been writing all her life, just for fun. She was born in the East End of London and although she says she hates London, she keeps getting drawn back there time after time.