under another sun

A muted harp Calliope, bored with being rained on, came inside and bit my feet until I woke up. When I did, I found that for the first time in days I could think straight. I had stayed up late last night, surfing, and in so doing discovered that a long-lost friend, a singer songwriter called Patrick Mayo, had died of a freak accident falling down some stairs about ten years ago. Obviously I've not seen him for years, but he was a lovely gentle soul, and had some great tunes with a strong Irish element. He had a high nasal voice, but had a splendid footstomping song called When will it end . And an adaptation of a poem by Thomas Moore which I think was The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls . The first lines are rather apt: The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled As well as playing guitar lots at The Troubadour, which was a haunt of my twenties and early thirties, full of mad poets and...