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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.

The Note I never Wrote


I tried to write a note to you
A note that would reveal my heart
But what to use to write my part,
How to send these words so few?

The iPad seems so wrong, so cold,
The laptop glows a baleful blue
And does not nurse sweet thoughts of you
With menu bars and text in bold.

My typewriter lies in its cloth of dust,
Its keys now grimed and stiff with age.
Could it print thoughts on this page
Before it lies in a shroud of rust?

I sat before the ancient tool
And looked down with nervous care.
It seemed to me that your face was there
Smiling at me, your earnest fool.

I saw my note before me then,
The words I’d say, the love I’d send,
The hurt and pain I’d softly mend
And how our time should come again.

I took the sheet and planned my pleas,
Placed my hands on the aged thing.
So now it was my words would sing!
My hands came down and met the keys.

They did not stir; they did not move.
My thoughts flew not from mind to ink.
I sat and felt those sweet dreams sink,
Trapped for ever in an endless groove.

Would love have grown from that hopeful note?
Would we have kissed in the summer sun?
I only know that our time is done,
Dead as the note that I never wrote.

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