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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 3, September 2015


Ken Jones
Aberystwyth, Wales

A Stranger to Myself

This screw topped jar
once an easy wrench
now a stab and a sigh

This slippered Pantaloon,
no longer climbing mountains, felling trees;
mounting into a saddle or leaping a stream;
no more passionate love or passionate rhetoric,
or a full night’s sleep or a full day’s life.

Now an unsteady, bleary stranger to myself, I trail along the heather paths behind her.

My much loved widow
her long skirt
teasing the brambles

Is there only this tidying up before the end? These lamentations of self-pity ? Yes, oh yes !

Through tangled weeds
a Right of Way
clear to the horizon

She and I
our beer and cuddles;
poetry and wine;
our playful space
twixt life and death

St David’s Day
my daffodils
blooming once again



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