IF these walls could talk! If I was a fly on the wall! Well, I’m a talking, listening park bench. All ears, in a figurative sense.
By Keith Butlerabout 11 hours ago in Writers
Boxing Day night, 1988, I teetered, zombie grey and matchstick thin, through the automatic doors of an almost deserted A&E. The receptionist looked up.
By Keith Butlerabout 11 hours ago in Poets
