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Wind Dance

Sycamore leaves dance

In only the lightest breeze

They never turn askance

Like leaves on other trees


Sycamore leaves flair

Within their perfect ballet

In just the lightest air

Blowing up the valley


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And Now I'm Old

This poem carries faint echoes of winter in a Mediterranean climate, in this case the South West of Western Australia; limpid skies, stormclouds threatening, people in overcoats walking hastily. Rather like an English summer, I would have thought!


And Now I'm Old

And now I'm old as softening apples

left forgotten on a sideboard

after a windy day,

the murmur of the evening room


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Liquid Freedom

The flow I enjoy to come and go,

As I please with or against the breeze,

Like water flowing without the resistance,

Of opportunities for autographs or selfies


It is the privilege of the obscure majority,

To live without resistance to our liquidity,

To not owe every gratitude to new found difficulties,

I don't want fame, let me stay a minority.

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Swaying flowers,

passing hours,

birds in evergreens


happy smiles,

worth your whiles

and sappy little trees


muddy faces,

fraying laces,

and a gentle summer breeze


swaying flowers,

passing hours,

making memories

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