tell me a poetry collection John Bailey
A browser-grey sky, featureless A feather on the edge of the path A thousand butterflies An endless line of foxes as I write at the meeting of the lines clay locked bones lay Condense me Each visit there are more. Black backs Even now the garden is not done From each point of a rosy compass His hands, blunt-fingered, are I refuse to reflect In diamond traced copper plate script In the lee of the mill a quiet It wants four hours yet before business starts Last night the earth felt the cold Like flowers, people fade Most days are drear in this moor-domed place Much of the magic happens nettle-rank the yarrow stalks no stargazer really ends no stone the bone man Not all fossils consist of hardened stone Not much of a bridge, this, On the high plains of Lassithi On the claws of my thornbush One apple remains Perhaps I should learn to sit in the rain plantain puller Returning from my distant land Sailing steady in a dark cloud sky "So?" Sometimes I forget things. My Summer slows me Standing row on row, water-slapped Tell me who I am The arched window, paneless The first word is perverse, alone on the page the hazels are drab The lane seems longer on sickroom legs The track floats over a dark The window looks over a rain-dripped There was a reward of course They were painted in difficult times This wind began in Siberia Today I walked the coffin road Walking in beauty Weather-bound to the house When five Japanese tourists had finished their photo shoot When the cliff tower Who knows now the way to stand a stone Wood coals fall whisper-quiet from the last log
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