I don't mean Li Po, though I might well have done. 

I woke this morning from a vivid dream. 

The town of Callander, not far from the city of Stirling, is one of those places often referred to as ‘gateway to the Highlands’. It’s a busy little place, and scenic, with great big wooded crags behind it, from which the rain (when it’s raining) comes rolling down. It has a wonderful second-hand bookshop (more of that later).

Why is it so hard to do publicity?

I’ve always specially liked the term ‘little magazine’. It sounds so un-literary. But of course, it’s the reverse.  

How long does it take to snag a poem?