Voting Question: Thoughts on this poem?

6 February 2012, 9:31 am

Five miles up the hush and shush of ash. Yet the sky is as clean as a white slateI could write my childhood there. Selfish to sit in this garden, listening to the past. A gentleman bee wooing its flower, a lawnmower. When the grounded planes mean ruined plans, holidays on hold, saw absences at weddings, funerals. Windless commerce.But Britain’s birds sing in this spring from Inverness to Liverpool, From Crieff to Cardiff, Oxford, London Town, Land’s End to John O’Groats. The music, silence summoned, that Shakespeare heard,and Edward Thomas. Briefly, us. I need more than just "i like it" i need to know what you like about it and what you think i could improve etc... Read More »

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