.
What beauty.
Blue Earth floating over
dusty, pockmarked hills,
held in hundreds of hands,
a hundred thousand eyes, millions
of minds, then thrown away.
One image in a morning paper,
caught in the clattering stair teeth,
endlessly moving.
Mostly composed on the 07:33 to Finchley Road, then hastily typed up at work. Apart from the ones written surreptitiously in boring meetings or on the way home.
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