Sprits o’ Melorne, Ayre, Stef, Mac, Angel. Liptalkin’ softly, swirlin’ in the cunty dell o’ moss ’n’ ferny clotty ’eart. The moon is a white ’ole, I crawl int’ it t’ dream. Ayre liptalkin’ thru me ’eart. The bird listen, he liptalk thru ’is soul. Sprits outburstin’ around ’n’ around, a-yellin’, a-kissin’. All goldy things. All goldy sow. ’Ome. I come ’ome. [I can hear the spirits of Melorne, Ayre, Stef, Mac and Angel talking softly. I hear their voices swirling down through the valley and up through the mosses and ferns, so thick they are like a fern-clotted heart. The moon is like a white hole; I crawl into it when I dream. Ayre is speaking through my heart. The night bird listens, but when he talks he talks through his soul. Spirits are bursting out and dancing around, yelling and kissing. Everything is fertile, wonderful. Home. I have come home.]

p.71 BETSHEB: Nowt more outcastin’. [No more exile.]