Bruce Shanks (1908-1980)

[inscription reads] " thru (sic) an ice-whistle. / All along the north-west was a low-lying bar of clouds which was like a great lake, its sun-struck curling edges, are tossing waves. / There will be a frost. / Distance is hazy for all the icy air. / Moon snowy. Almost in the half. / After supper, low down at the horizon the sky is a livid orange. A star. / My ear is sensitive only to the things that my heart cherishes & loves. / While writing I am vaguely "