my patient temple crashed to the ground
around the time we swam at Areopolis
and further south then flew back 
bloodhound sick to Athens
this before that miracle crash
and a walk into History and love
dazed with new purpose

strange how the pages turn
distance growing from my compass
influenced by whatever influence
a gap where my stone should sit
now a story has been spoken
i begin to reach for it

A.H (6th October 2020)

Another workshop poem, same as that last poem, still carrying thoughts of compasses. We’d read a poem called Moral Spontateity by Gladys Ely, which is where thoughts turned to Greece, and then to write in a similar / influenced vein.