December 31, 2019

This is grim; it seems no end in sight

Though perhaps the darkest point is here,

The plumber will come, and this freezing night

Will die, and glow of morning reappear.

Until then we are reduced to a tribal dance

Negotiating the ice-cold shower,

Scott of the Antarctic would h...

December 9, 2019

Wood transforms itself under my touch

Whether it be hard olive or mountain pine,

Something I never questioned much,

Belonging to a carpenter’s long line.

I love the scent, the texture and the grain

Revealed by my steady and knowing hand

As I make things both elegant and plai...

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© 2018 James Morgan Nash - Writer and Poet - Leeds, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom - james@jamesnash.co.uk 

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