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Somewhere, Mr Gray, I hope you are living yet, vibrant student teacher, soaring high with a hawk that rose in the sunlit air, pulling me up in a powerful thermal of beauty, lifted forever from the withering bitter mist that rimmed our frontier town, like the green scum on the pensioned-off canal. Nearly fifty years have passed since you hooked a ragged kid at Windsor Hill, pulled him surely into your rhythmic net, and left him trembling on an endless bank, gulping the breath of coldly-crafted passion that streams from the mountains of poetic minds. And until now I never offered thanks for the gift of knowing words could set me free; yet still I hear the hiss of a hunter's wings and wonder if you ever noticed me. URL: www.mourne.org/awaken.htm |