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Sunday, 9 December 2012

Grasp

So soft and still the irony
Times pasture’s thrill I mean
Rosebuds then tulips
Corn on the cusp
On the turn from green

Youth was never ever lasting
Passed there in between
Here and now and casting
For the love I need to seem

Stickleback  and tickled trout
The hay loft and the stream
Quiet, quintessentially without
The shout of silent lest I mean

That no one knows, or enquires 
Of what I gleam