I have returned to Scotland Island. I am living in a boat shed. I live a simple life. Gary Shead has abandoned me.
This morning a ferry arrived at my wharf - a big one, its bow wave hammered at my foundations. There was no-one aboard. Its windows were like panels of high light in a Hawkesbury mad house. I called out. Nothing. Then movement in the wheelhouse. The outline of a man. He emerged, and in the green light of a channel marker, I saw Michael Wilding. He stepped down onto the deck and smiled. He said "I am going to write what I know of poets and it will not be pretty". Then he came inside without being invited and proceeded to rearrange my furnishings. I asked him to leave. Lowering his face, he said "Frighteners do not depart, they manifest."
Can you please ask him to leave me alone? He has been here for five days, writing reviews and muttering about poetry. He won't listen. Even the mangrove rats are afraid of him.