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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.

Wednesday 5 October 2022



I am a cloud blown on her ardent breeze,

torn and reformed in her shining sky.

I am a ripple born of the stone she throws,

spreading outwards as the murmurs die.

I am the flame on the blackening bough,

leaping from the fire that links our hearts.

I am the thunder in the angry clouds,

heard in the halls where her lightning darts.

I am the clay. But hers are the hands

that press and flex on the potter’s wheel.

The clay loves the hands that wound and mar

for without the potter, Form is not real – 

Love’s Being is Becoming’s End.

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