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A Prayer For The Parochial


Paul Grimsley

where simplicity from the earth buds
into an unassuming delicacy of flowers
digging from the earth like new grown spuds
you will find some poets toiling hours
over poems grown from memory seeded here
in the ordinary plots of men's back gardens
it is here they come to trade in the old year
for a youth in home-sown fruits that never harden
the plate is ever full if you remain rooted
through all your travels to an anchored spot
the man is lost who finds his stream polluted
by things he does not recognise things that he forgot
drowned in the provincial clothing of a lie
you wrote and thought could be made to ring true
you have no more the world once in your eye
a cataract of fantasy blinds your view

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