I was lucky enough to meet Fiona Robyn when she came to town to read some of her poetry on a Tongues and Grooves evening. Fiona's poetry is exquisite; the words are almost palpable, ripe, warm and juicy like blackberries eaten as fast as they can be picked off the sun warmed brambles.
Much to my delight her fiction has the same cadence...one which, to my mind, is reminiscent of Gregorian Monks chanting their prayers.
The Letters flings the reader up onto an edge of adrenaline fuelled frisson before dropping you into fur lined ruts where you could happily luxuriate forever.
There is a decadent syncopation to The Letters.
