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Living in a land

Where only the dying correspond

I am borne on the wings of love


I cannot join in a poem

The interstices of clouds

I watched a lapwing

Hover in the air

Glide in an arc

Veer from the sheer cliff


Who shall I meet

On this journey to eternity?

Alone and yet not alone

The dust of immortality

Lies in strangers’ eyes

Girls in all the beauty

Of their youth, old men with sticks

No one afraid of anyone

‘No strangers here

Just friends we have yet to meet


‘Angels Fine English Lace’

This was the post office

In the time of the Brontes

Here the famous manuscripts

Were posted.
V Perhaps I’ll meet on the pebbled road Michael Haslam in elfin form Shape-shifter or leprechaun VI One of a gang of Keighley girls Going clubbing in Leeds put her arms Round my neck and sang “Won’t you be my lover?” Eternities beyond Winnicott’s ‘spontaneous gesture’.

by Barry Tebb
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