Hay Machine _e_ (vico@indigo.ie) from newcache2.indigo.ie at 01/23/01 05:50AM
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    Well I was delighted completely that you posted a verse on "Power". Try this one: It is a poem about the mistified emigrants leaving their homes and peasant lives in the Mayo (west Ireland). Wild Roses in the City All roads lead to London like the briar’s root from the feather-lines the postman walks to knock on the peeling paint in Achill. Until the unseen pliared hand lops off a stem of Winter thorns so that the promise of the Summer makes its way quietly with cardboard case in hand to bloom against a wall in Kilburn. And in the dark there are no flowers nor is the light imagined until the postman walks the fine vein up to the shrinking door to break the silver news. Hay Machine (e)