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Oh dear, ideas are all muddled today and nothing seems clear. Thoughts need to distil, so I offer you a poem in the interim. Hope my brain is working better tomorrow.

This was written after one of those lovely sun-shining-through-the-rain mornings, when everything seems new:

The gift

There is a bird

he is calling

this pale morning

his cry wringing

and wrenching the rain from the sky

a sudden silver shower

I rinse my soul clean

and hang it on the line

to fly in the breeze

dry in the breeze

the bird flies away

leaving me standing

nothing to hear

but the dripping of trees

a new day