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The Wake
The Wake
The white ship slides serene, wind-blown,
heedless of its human burthen
while laying wakes but swiftly flown.
Mile-on-mile the dance of heathen
sunbursts play on flashing waters
pretty as maids, or bonds that weaken
as the leaving fades. The snows that fought us
in winters past, tall drifts in proud array,
melt clear in spring before our youngest daugh...
Friday 13th December 2019 1:08 pm
Winter Town
This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).
Winter Town
March winds stir listless eddies,
fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,
flare through fields of stubble
then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing
from the blowing day;
coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,
cold as a church bell sounds the hours.
Spring will be late this...
Saturday 23rd December 2017 3:13 am
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