Bosca Dubh

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.

from The Waste Land, by T.S. Eliot

Two cullings for today:

• Persona from gallery(bea)
• Getting a haircut, Uncle Doug’s Barber Shop, Plymouth from fourteen places to eat