The Old Hunt Camp

My hunt camp is a dirty place, some may say a real disgrace, no linens, drapes, or table lace. But fabric harbours old smells and flies, from greasy guys and old French fries. The sofa will quickly tell (by its rancid and fetid smell) of its long lived hell. And all the fixtures need repair, [...]

Autumn Remembrances

In Creemore, the maples burn in hues Of red, yellow, orange – Like old friends waving from the north end of Mill Street. Fields lie quiet, grain sown deep, Waiting patiently for the Spring rains’ soft kiss. And there, on the corner by the Sovereign Hotel, The chestnut tree still stands in my [...]

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