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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

Sunday, 21 October 2018

On Visiting Jodrell Bank



A steel eye stares up at the sky
seeing the radio colours never seen by men;
Glimpsing through the smoke-like nebulae
what we can but visualise as peaks on graphs.
You can see them: you can probe the farthest depths
beyond those whirlpool galaxies,
beyond the far coruscant quasars
to where time and space curve back on themselves
like the sleeping Norse World-Serpent.


But you cannot see what I look on now:
My love, dampened with this summer shower,
her hair wind-blown to a silken fan;
and lips moist as they meet mine own.

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