Poetry. "A bittersweet, poetic memoir by a senescent man glancing back along tracks erasing, scents dissipating, who imparts to us from memory's ravels and rags the sad and happy silhouettes of his encounter with the kiss and cuff of seasons. From this collection's first poem, 'Some Old Tale,' where 'life fumbles with death's bodice like a lover,' to the last, 'Ancient Fires,' when the author says his pilgrimage was 'fat with witchings, delicious with ghouls, soul's gate hung on mystic hinges,' there's an unflinching measure of loss and a covenant with grace, and, always, a fierce romance with brooks and ghosts and braes, a metrical come-hither into flown and fleeting days." —Lawrence Cottrell
Born into a different cultural dispensation, Lawrence Cottrell has said that he feels like eroding tracks left by another age. Tricked up in wit's metrical silks, it's that very archaic exotica, his seductive beat of the tympanums of sense and sensibility, he would have you know, a ghostly extravagance of grace lest there be neither ghosts nor graces where drops horizon toward infinity; a once upon a time, some part of aggregate ado become a self, born in blood of woman, a Balthazar, a fool, a man merely, come to see blushing minsters of days, bequeathing to tomorrow's indifference, on the other side of the bastard title gate into a book, the better angel of his nature, or, if not that, a miscreant seraph who ties iambic knots in fate's tail.