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Stripping the willow (Free verse) by ecargo

Powder and flare or the inky harness of the plough, we seek the unturned memory of dirt, of thunder, a sough of doubt. Wandering’s a skin. We wear motion, our descent completes the turn. Within the wood, a sickle burns in a hunter’s hand. Sighted along the long draw of alder, oak--so flies the blood burn of old sacrifice.

Stephen Robins 22-Jan-07/3:05 AM
I knew you would like Vicar of Dibley. Unfortunately I can't stand Dawn French, she is like VioletSuede whose one joke is being fat. In fact I can't stand any comedy which didn't have its genesis on Radio 4.




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