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.