Ange Drinnan wrote a poem about the Hurst, Arvon’s writing house in Shropshire.

Hurst May

A passover week: from the beginning, endings
hover, a flock of birds beating
their wings against Saturday.

Fears about death
of languages. Stories
of exile and surviving attack.

Memories imported across borders,
some smuggled, some stowed away.
Internal tyrants censor words.

I cross a border,
to Wales, with a wrong turn to Clun,
and wonder about being in between.

In between but part of a circle,
the face of a clock.
The spaces between the numerals still count.

Spanning the years, a family
tree of surprises, including Daddy long legs.
We sup wine and Shropshire bluebelled.

I picture us as a glowing
necklace of poems, each taking
a bright bead for the journey home.

You can read this poem and lots more  writing at the Arvon Friends website