New Year (after Rimbaud)

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The sorrows of loss and
of times past collide with the
shock of the new.
We measure the year
review what is trailing
behind through thick mist
of sentiment that drags
us back to the
days we’ve squandered. Comforting folds Read More

When I Am Eighty

When I am eighty
I will live in a white stone cottage
Older than me
It will have thick walls and small windows
To make a cosy den
A fence made of sticks
Higgledy piggledy like my bones
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