It was the cloth itself that darkened, from milk white to a shade like the foam below the millpond. Her Highness straightened up and brushed her hair back, and in the mirror Abel saw the brightness that had passed from the cloth, now lighting and lightening her face.

I simply find the human form beautiful, especially the female, and I love lush textures, rich colours, and fine details, so I try to impart all those things into everything I create.

1981 saw two poems awarded the Rhysling, poems at the opposite end of the speculative poetry spectrum, or better, at opposite ends of several speculative poetry spectrums: length, accessibility, and most notably attitude and relation to the genre.

. . . much is passed on, you see. Oh, not the / surface—the face is due to my mother's mother