ALT Foxglove Country Sometimes I like to hide in the word foxgloves - in the middle of foxgloves. The xgl is hard to say, out of the England of its harbouring word. Alone it becomes a small tangle, a witch's thimble, hard-to-toll bell, elvish door to a door. Xgl a place with a locked beginning then a snag, a gl like the little Englands of my grief, a knotted dark that locks light in glisten, glow, glint, gleam and Oberon's banks of eglantine which closes in on the opening of Gulliver whose shrunken gul says 'rose' in my fatherland. Meanwhile, in the motherland, the xg is almost the thumb of a lost mitten, an impossible interior, deeper than forests and further in. And deeper inland is the gulp, the gulf, the gap, the grip that goes before love.