Down in Plymouth at moment for grans 100th Birthday..... her name is May, so a little poem. Am I the only one in this city at the moment, who is not overjoyed with olympic torches and stuff..... a mass delusion seems to be taking place. Have been called a killjoy 3 times this morning already. Hey ho.
Bright Clouds
Bright clouds of may
Shade half the pond.
Beyond,
All but one bay
Of emerald
Tall reeds
Like criss-cross bayonets
Where once a bird called,
Lies bright as the sun
No one heeds.
The light wind frets
And drifts the scum
Of may blosson.
Till the northern callsAgain
Naughts to be done
By birds or men.
Still the may falls.
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