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      <image:title>Poetry - Bryn Myrddin - Bryn Myrddin</image:title>
      <image:caption>Wales — 2 September 2026 Mary Stewart gave me a boy misunderstood, alone, who rode his pony up a hill and found a cave. There, Galapas taught him the names of birds, the shape of the world, and something of his own strength. Through all the years of Merlin's life, he returned to that hill. I was a girl when I first read it, but I carried that hill long after I closed the book. Years later, when I could no longer walk, I made myself a promise. Through two new knees and the long work of learning to walk again, I kept that hill somewhere ahead of me. And now, Aris and I stood beneath enormous beeches. The path rose. And kept rising. Along the path we found the pool. A great bowl of stone, dark water, fallen needles on its surface. Someone else had loved the story enough to give it a place in the world. I knelt and touched the water. It was cold. I knew it was only a story. I touched the water anyway. Beyond the pool, the hill grew steeper. Rain had made the earth slick. In places we could climb only by pulling ourselves up ropes tied between the trees. And then— sky. The forest fell away. Rain touched my face. I stood there, breathless, Wales opening beneath me. And for a moment, I could see what Merlin saw.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Poetry - Bryn Myrddin - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Poetry - Patron Saint of Love - Patron Saint of Love</image:title>
      <image:caption>London — 2 September 2026 We went looking for coffee and something sweet before leaving for Wales. I chose lemon and pistachio. Aris wanted the same. Emma shook her head. No, no, no. Try the lemon rosemary. Get one of each. Then you can share. And so we did. When she heard we were going to Wales, her whole face opened. You must see this. And this. A forest, a beach, an island with a saint— Dwynwen, patron saint of love. We thanked her. She went back to work. But behind the counter Emma found a scrap of paper and began writing down the places she did not want two strangers to miss. An arrow. A name. Another arrow. Then she brought it to our table. There are days when I have believed the world to be terribly broken. There are reasons enough. But perhaps it is also being repaired in places too small for anyone to report— behind coffee counters, between strangers, on scraps of paper. Later, I turned the paper over. In large black letters: Happy London and underneath, a heart. Emma S. 2.9.26 I will keep it. Not because I need directions. There are maps for that. I will keep it because this morning a young woman I had never met before wanted me to see a beautiful beach, to stand where the old stones are, to find an island where once there lived a woman who became the patron saint of love. And perhaps this is how saints have always found us— not glowing, not announced by bells, but beside the ordinary road, pointing toward something beautiful, saying, You must see this. And then returning to work.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Poetry - Patron Saint of Love - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Poetry - Red Route - Red Route</image:title>
      <image:caption>London — 1 September 2026 We came down out of a night that had somehow become morning into the hidden country of the airport— service roads, warehouses, fences bent inward under years of rain. Then the bus. All of us standing too close, carrying the smell of six sleepless hours, waiting for someone to retrieve a telephone left on the plane. At last we moved. Not toward the Heathrow I remembered— glass and light, the bright machinery of elsewhere— but behind it. Through one window a woman ate her sandwich. Through another a man at his screen rubbed his eyes. A paper cup stood on a windowsill. No one knew I was passing. Then, above the narrow road, a sign: RED ROUTE NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME No stopping. Not here. Not anywhere. The woman finishes her lunch. The man turns back to his screen. The bus carries us toward London. My mother grows older. The dog waits at home. Somewhere across an ocean morning is beginning without me. And here we are— all of us traveling through one another's windows, catching a glimpse. No stopping at any time. Still, for a few seconds on a grim little road behind Heathrow, I did.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Poetry - Red Route - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.</image:caption>
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