Walking Turcot Yards: Buried Horses – Tom Dacre’s Blues

Ashes fall from the chimney so maudlin. Sodden haunts returning thoughts to your flue. Did your body snap? Was it made of porcelain? Could my shakey hand prepare a splint to repair poor ghostly? Kindling. Little kindling. Lit a fire under. Kindling. Little kindling. Lit a fire under and over you. Winter came to asphyxiate ...