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Don't Eat With Your Mouth Full

Where can we live but days?

steepholm steepholm
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Stump Study
On the way back home this afternoon I stopped at Otterbourne Wood to pay my respects to my father's ashes, which just now are all bluebells and moss.


Thank you. It put me in mind of these lines from a poem I wrote for him a while ago:

What death has made of you, I do not know.
Perhaps you are the vastest star,
Or that still-vaster darkness where it burns,
Or soil, or stem, or now a spreading tree,
Or that thin web which from the sallow leaf
Extends. These mansions tenanted,
Where shall I seek you on the Greek Kalends?