Mar/Apr 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 2 Poetry |

Dove Lake

Some of us will walk a week examining the plants from duckboards, gazing out from well-earned heights or up at unspoiled stars. The rest of us have been bused in. Our cheery driver seems immune to anything that Wordsworth knew but has a sense of it. And what are we supposed to see? Geology and vegetation? A mighty reach of H₂0? An aftertaste of glaciers with dolerite resisting? And what are we supposed to feel? One grand remonstrance surely to bring us back to scale. There's been a dispossession butthe stones have grown too smooth for anger. Refreshed by diminution and still a little mocked, we're lined up in a row and bused back to our cars. 

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Head Wound

By Clive James

Some of us will walk a week examining the plants from duckboards, gazing out from well-earned heights or up at unspoiled stars. The rest of us have been bused in. […]

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