There ought to be a fund for that.

My dreams have got strange. I think it is the coldness of my room. London feels reluctant to admit to cold, make it a truth that winter is here.

Better than seeing Christmas trees up when the sun is out and somehow, most of the leaves on the deciduous trees are still around, even if they are brown.

Scribblings below. I wish I were nearer the sea.

 

This low ebb sinks sea-down,

feather-down, chasing the places the black mood began

and you can, you can, you can, wild cry to the waves and

blast-haired, gale-roving, strip off whatever binds you

and if dawn finds you tugging at the bottom of a rock

like sea-weed, dredge out the bay and God-speed into the

ripped out tide.

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