Began writing poesy aged 20. Discovered Emily Dickinson 6 years later. A shy soulmate. And along with Mary Coleridge and Sara Teasdale my dearest friends in time. 'A strange thought, simply wrought'. My personal axion.
Nothing in my beat, irretrievable
That takes to treks, as something
Exiled of its own volition
Ever dispirits, within
A life is not lived once
But many times over
In the memory.
Perusal of which read
Time, void of use, a wasteland
Is how we see you now.
Stretched out, monotonous. Gladder
Passed through having to plough!
Lifted from the book of Miracles
Set beside, what's blushed awake
For those wood out of snow images
A coherent picture make