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In the old-girl, yet to be taken, a word sits dust-covered at her heart. From where she gazes with blind eyes open, she catches at its lines and gets its shadow and light down,
Like the Greeks at Salamis With nowhere left to run I had to face my enemy The 'Washing-Up Undone' The hunger that lay heavy Was weakening my fleet So as Themistocles had done
I remember the Grand Tour, you gave us of your childhood. Forced to admire your views, Trudging beneath the February skies of your overcast eyes. "That must have been awful?" was the script
You hold me like the moon is held Still in the bright, blue, Spring sky. You embrace me like the seawall Encircles Canvey Island. You catch my words like a bucket
He was crouched Inside, waiting, almost dead with excitement, holding his breath in his sweaty hand. Was the radio on? Something came through a door downstairs.