Autumn comes to the ponds with a hope that Stay Belows will soon be at mud. Comes with fear that they aren't yet sleeping. – #DAKilory, 1982 #Autumn

Autumn comes to the alleys with a crowding of ghosts. Schoolboy firework anticipation triggered by the smoke of every garden bonfire. Comes with half-heard voices full of leaf-rasp and branch-stretch. It comes with waking shadows. – #DAKilory, 1982 #Autumn

Autumn comes to the cottages with carpets of apple rot that sour the air with vinegar tang. Comes in a dressing of the year not in green gowns, but wounded rags of brown. It comes as a fear of early darkness. A terror of hungry spirits that rush the path. – #DAKilory, 1982

War is target fixation. War is concrete cicatrix. War is an unbanishable ghost. Hookland knows this. It pillboxes remain manifestations of invasion fears. The abandoned sound mirrors of its salt marshes still listen out for phantom planes. There is no psychic peace. – #DAKilory