It is a book of poems. Here is a sample: A Talkative Saint who Lived in a Hedge He was caught up in what he did and he couldn't do enough of it and he did it all the time. He would talk about it to anyone even if they told him they couldn't understand a word of it and didn't want to listen and he wouldn't stop. He would run after you to tell you that the thing he told you yesterday although not incorrect was not what he meant at the time. Walking from Penzance to Newlyn, to buy a fish or two, it would be quicker some people said to go by Lamorna, avoiding him in his place in the hedge. He was not St. Cuby. He was not St. Caradoc. And he was not St. Erth. Where he came from: some say he paddled over from Ireland in a wooden washtub with the purpose of getting away from himself. But he would tell you e ven if that was a true story it was about someone else. People missed him when he was gone. They would now and then stop by his place in the hedge and wait for a while, as if they expected something, even fairly sensible people.