Tate Gaia - Poem by Richard George
That spider knows nothing
of the geometry, Euclid-
intricate, it gossamers.
Spectrum-dewdrops wink goodbye,
The tide breathes its mantra.
It has never heard it.
Pebbles sleep in bliss
to their sculpture by my thumb-whorl,
Henry Moore, before a hand existed.
On into neolithic evening
I comb the sea.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You