Iona Costello

Grey is a ghost come for the most and me. A member of the Cree who formed the t for a club. He is in the pub drinking now with the wolf cub, the night-cub which rhymes away with a sway. Grey is the ghost silvery moon on the river Lune come for the plume, because there was no choice. Grey is my ghost, who took me on a journey, a portal if you will, into the mind of a man and his realm, a world of psyches, gut and intellect, flecked, specked and checked. The Grey set a rivet to pivot, for pivoting is what I do best.