The North, chipped and scavenged in these standing stone days, does not fall asunder nor domino down in sight of barber surgeons with their slingshots, chippings. Long abraded by high seas, we stack lean as limestone, holding our breath like we have held our noses, impassive in the face of this flitting ephemera. We Danelaw children, sons and daughters of the trod, are forged from such stuff as cannot be dreamt of. Today or tomorrow, hope will prevail. Harry Gallagher
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