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BRITISH-IRISH-POETS  1998

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS 1998

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Subject:

Re: Fred Beake's cogitations on feet

From:

Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>

Date:

Thu, 12 Mar 98 9:30:06 GMT

Content-Type:

text/plain

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

text/plain (75 lines)

Woodlands

The lack of a song in the soul
Is the cause of a celibate curse
The loss of spring in the vine
Taints the rhythm of verse
The freshness the thrill of before
Is repeated as memory plays
The records the hope of young heart
Relayed thru some innocent face
But the fire in the heart is all still
The wine to the head no more
What was there by right in the past
Is dredged from the depths as a chore
The pen so easy skips its beat
But whereof is its reason
Are all singers doomed to play mechanic
When love moves on in season
Drinking pubs dry is an art my friend
To which I have given much attention
But when the old body says no more
Must seek out a new direction
Face the world stick out your chin
Go out and sniff at the sun
And as for life that wondrous thing
Pretend it's just begun
Love and women and sex are no good
They only cause you pain
So be a boy just ten years old
And summer come again
You and I we played by a stream
Watching the horses trot
Those were the days of bracken green
Before the trees were cut
The lawns were great for a croquet bash
But I preferred the woods
There's something magic there in the green
In silence with the rooks
Nettles and thistles and midges that sting
The smell of a festering pool
Are lost in the image of bird in tree
Come to conduct his school
But the horses best I remember the meet
The height of black and pink
A chestnut pawing at her bit
A silver tankard's clink
And the fox we chased along with the car
Long hounds stretched in pursuit
Low hedges chopping up the hunt
As hunters changed their foot
And then the fox was away in the wood
The hounds had been too slow
We weren't to get our taste of the brush
Not for a year or so
When life's gone foul go back to roots
And find who you really are
For there is no sense in living out
An act for fifty year
If you give love then you'll get it back
That's what the fates decree
And sometimes throw in as bonus
The love that none can see
But where is the magic to forget the past
And repair the damage done
Must the record ever stick its groove
And the tankard drunk on the lawn


for Robert Frost

29 October 1967


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