Back from an essential piece of commuter annual leave, paced across the up-up-uplands of Austria, eaten through strudel and drunk in white beer. I picked a copy of TS Elliott collected poems from the bookshelves for the new-term read on the train and picked my way through the tattered drafts of three unfinished in my suit pocket. And uploaded them just now. Discharge is complete cliche but a bit of fun and I say hi to the guy most days; The Lavender Fields is measured cliche and – I hope obviously so that it isn’t lost – an echo of romantics. Grace is the real thing. I had been struggling to find a way to express in words what theologically is so simple but so mighty in concept.