The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices,

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

The Dreamer In Her Had Fallen In Love With Me And She Did Not Know It. That Moment The Dreamer In Me Fell In Love With Her And I Knew It

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.

The World Rolls Under The Long Thrust Of His Heel. Over The Cage Floor The Horizons Come.