Rolle the Hermit   Raving on the moors, they say, or baying at the moon . . . but so little they know the love God lays like honey on my soul, as though every drop of love enfolds the ocean of all love; I hear heaven songs, and angels cheer my every moment with melody. I told them how my heart can feel the fire enter my soul and glow there — only this is real; yet . . . somehow it always misses my lunging words; my lyrics lie inert and lifeless on the page, torn to pieces in a fit of rage.     © Michael Fleming Oxford, England March 1984