Tales of a Poor Poge by Richard Palmer - HTML preview
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A CHILD
I see before me a child
And know that I have forgotten
The truth she knows.
One with Life, the free expression
Of beauty exploring her world.
Attuned to the Root from which
Our being sprung.
A Root never empty
Whose truth in her is again begun.
MONTY
Monty was the summer wind
Smiling softly on my soul.
A beauty of the Earth who
Touched my days and dreams.
Monty was woman searching
For an unattainable paradise.