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GLASTONBURY 
I remember,It was as if a green sea bristledWith cream-grey stonework, and inSome rare corner, more complete,A ruin stood. The ivyLuxuriously summer-green, hungFrom the cracking, solid walls;And all was stone, or grass, andBoth were clean. The grass,Exquisite – and so enviously laidIt clutched the squat feet of Avalon;Reluctant to release the stark severityOf decay. To finger,And to dust the edges of the stone,Now frozen in the view of pilgrims,Who see the leavings – incomplete, Yet perfect.And outside The grass is grey, and brittle. The tarmac spans the gap andAs closely joins the pub andPost-office.c. 1957
DAWN
 
Clouds laced against the pinkAnd scudding westwards overhead,While leaves pick solitary shadows –Silhouettes against the sky.Sharp air knifing on the trees;Impartial muffled movesAnd songs advance from pipes of fir,And reeds, and opening flowers. The soft, low call of orange chaosIn the east; the rise of lightAnd fan of pearl; the clouds areRacing in the pink – the blueing air.c. 1957
INTERLUDE
 
 You came upon me then,And I, surprised cannot rememberHow she looked, or howShe smiled. Yet somehowI seem to see a likeness –A reflection, as it were, Yourself in hers returning.And yet the memory fades,New pictures take its place.I see her as your mind portrays The scene, and none too soundIt is, but warped a littleBy the jealous thoughts you harbour.And is this vision false?My thoughts are too like yours to say.
FLY HARD
Fly hard
of 00

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