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Long Learning

  the lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne… He walks in and out of my sleep wearing…

Under the Minarets

The moon is as ripe and heavy as a piece of fruit about to fall. Above us, the domes loom, fat and golden. Minarets conjure Samarkand, Bukhara, St. Petersburg. Beyond the lawns, the Number Two to Rottingdean chugs past.

Letting Go

This is an excerpt of this lovely poem. It should display on the front end of this site.

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