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Saturday, March 11, 2017

how old you've grown, my dear, how white has your hair become


They’ve burned the brush and dead wood in a ditch
All week, a low flame up and down a creek
No longer there. Thin smoke’s been rising like
A mist off water, sparks like leaping fish.

A stone tossed into it will raise a splash
That takes all day to fall. Your cupped hand comes
Up full of weightless grey, as if this stream
Had somehow dried to dust in a flash.

Omened. Biblical. Or like the river
Downward to the place where souls were ferried,
The boatman even-keeled, unhurried
As a drift of ashes on that water.

James Scruton.


March 11, 2017 | Permalink


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