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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
That fire, they said, was red as red as redas red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;
Five children clasping mittenscould not hug the entire trunk.Whole hands could hide in the folds of its bark.James, the tallest boy in class,could sit on a root,
From Things You Find in a Poet's Beard by A.F. Harrold
Frost spins white lines
on the lawn,
grass turns glass-like,
The biggest berries are in the centreof a tunnel of thorny bushes.A shark gaping wide,promising not to nip.
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.
Thinker to Jace
If I'm not reciting a poem,
my tongue won't let me talk,
I can only bark.
But barking can't say much,