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Comments about Oliver Swain
In absence time passes-
I remembered branches
Not so wistfully old, or creaky to our steps,
Smiles not so cigarette worn, wise,
And lines describing the face here
That did not crease so, in
More youthful a gaze;
Summers without the drunken Dutch
And gaudy brick flashes on the hills;
A loaf of bread less polythene.
Yes, things have changed, them and me,
And yet still the skies, wilfully
Are vast and vague,
The morning bird cries ever caustic.
There’s a subtle gold hint
Of the supernatural
In the light of the August evenings-