Friday, 16 March 2018


Here is a poem about people who cannot leave what they know. 
It was written quite quickly a little while ago and I am not sure it is ready yet.

He has never left his garden,
or walked beyond its boundary
to gaze with open eyed wonder
at what can thrive outside.
It is is true he tends his fields,
diligently kneels in the soil,
skin cut by sharp leaves
of plants he barely knows beyond
the names they give themselves.
Each holds its own promise:
protection, profit, status.
Everything comes at a cost,
in blood, in sweat, in time,
so he has never left his garden.
There could be so much more.
I'd be interested to know what you make of it.
Here is Bill Evans from 1965.
Until next time.

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