We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage /
And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, /
We Poets of the proud old lineage /
Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ...
(James Elroy Flecker)
‘I must go and visit Robyn’ (now in an aged care home near me) I keep telling myself – and keep putting it off. Finally I realise why: that’s where my Andrew died.
a black butterfly
in my neglected garden
flutters aimlessly
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DON'T PANIC IF YOUR COMMENTS DON'T POST IMMEDIATELY. They are awaiting moderation. Please allow for possible time difference; I am in Australia. ALSO, IF YOU ARE FORCED TO COMMENT ANONYMOUSLY – do add your name at the end, so I know it's you!