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Leslie Philibert

(6th March 1954 / London, England)

All Saint`s Day

A bleached evening, grey
my memory follows me into the cold

the ice records my steps, and peeks
at my afraid progress.

I lay in humility on the damp earth
a priest unable to bear the face of God,

the trees make a lot of noise, the feel as
important as a kestrel in balance with the sky

my face is a forgotten piece of washing on a line
as stupid as a lonely dancer in the wind.

Nothing can be created, all that is holy has been
turned into foulness, gold and silver behind glass.

Submitted: Sunday, September 16, 2012

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  • John Brown (9/16/2012 6:20:00 AM)

    This is an intriguing one Leslie, but I'm not sure I quite 'get it' I'm a bit thick sometimes. I had to read it though, as I used to attend a school called All Saints. (Report) Reply

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