Bride, I Breathe You In

Bride, I breathe you in
With my lungs I breathe you in
With my eyes I delight in your form
With my tongue I savour you
With my nose I remember you down all my days
With my ears I listen to you speak the wind
With my skin I feel your cold touch
And your warm touch

Bride, I ask your blessing
With my heart I feel your blessing
With my voice I sing your blessing
With my acts I spread your blessing
Without your blessing I am nothing
Without your blessing there is nothing
With your blessing, the world is born
With your love, we live

Note: Bride is the Scots version of Brighid.

Blue Dog

I was troubled
When I first saw the Blue Dog
Blue Dog against a red brick wall
Blue Dog who lives deep down inside
He only showed himself once
In a frenzy of crayon
In the therapist’s office

The wall was red brick with green shadows
An elaborate wall
Dynamic
Vibrating on the paper
Energy of chaos
Impenetrable in its complexity

But the Blue Dog was still
Featureless
Calm
Soothing
Silhouetted in front of the wall
And from that moment
My life turned

I know he’s there still
The Blue Dog inside me
Still, against a red brick wall

Teetering

Teetering
As I am
On the brink of a new day

Still
Inside
Waiting for the light

The weight
Of a feather
Could tip me over

Doon Hill

Doon Hill

One day as I stepped out from my house
Into the dawning spring morning
And smelled the fresh rain-washed air,
And heard the melodious chorus of woodland birds -
Blackbird and wren, robin and chaffinch,
And the curious gurgling call of the young rook -
High over the rough grass of the field by my house
A skylark warbled, unseen at a great height,
Like a singer direct from heaven,
Or a friend calling me from a distance.

Straightway I stepped from the warmth of my cottage,
From the home smells of cooking and the body of my family,
Into the rain-rinsed morning where the birds seemed to greet me
As some dear, long-lost comrade. I spoke back to them,
Called them by name as they appeared in tree and hedgerow and long rough grass.

There I met neighbours and other people of the town,
The early-joggers and dog-walkers,
The commuters hurrying along the track to the station -
I greeted them and they me, and the early summer sun greeted us all.

But as I strode on, only pausing to study a just-opened wildflower,
Or stand entranced by the call of an unknown bird,
I was glad to welcome solitude, the fellowship of the empty country road.

The road was met by a well-trimmed farmer’s track,
And if solitude can grow deeper as you step from road to path
It did grow deeper, though only solitude from man:
A hare stood on hind legs and watched me pass,
And startled ahead, one deer stood from the corn,
Then another and another, a family of their own;
All naturally frightened of me (though I didn’t blame them),
They bounded high and balletically, melting into the wood
Which I approached reverently where it stood,
A temple in the fields.

I climbed through the ruined fence where the deer had leapt,
Through hawthorn and under holly,
And under the ancient pollarded beeches.
The green was deep, and the silver trunks of the beeches
Were the columns of this temple and the canopy its roof.
Behind the sun shot through the hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn,
The rays touching here and there on leaf and branch,
A glittering array of dancing jewels the morning light seemed,
And no church more beautifully adorned before the sight of its god.

Above I could see and hear a morning breeze sway the branches
And make that sighing music
When tree sings to tree as bird sings to bird,
And all a great harmonious choir that no man heard but I,
Though they would have sung as harmoniously had I not been there.

As I walked, slowly now, greeting each tree as dear friend,
Rowan and oak, birch and ash, even the foreign sycamore I greeted,
An immigrant as I am an immigrant,
But more firmly planted in this land than I.
I was as glad to see them all as I had been glad to see the townspeople,
Regarding them as equal in interest and cordiality,
But freer too, to touch and caress and speak my heart softly to them.
For though I would like to be equally tactile and soft with my friends in the town,
The men and women whom I love and whose company I cherish,
Still I could not touch them as I touched that rowan,
Speak my deepest heart to them as I spoke it to this oak,
Nor lie as close to their bodies as I stretched out on the low branch
Of an accommodating beech.

Only one hundred yards long, but it seemed
As if that wood would never, could never end – and yet it ended.
Now an iron fence stretched across the track,
And with a wave and a foolish fond backward glance I left the wood
To follow the track back through the fields.
It passed by a lonely farmhouse,
Its outbuildings huddled around for company under the wide sky,
And though I knew the farmer,
And knew coffee and a second breakfast could be had for the asking,
I only cast him a cordial thought through the clear air and kept walking,
My eye set on the height of Doon Hill.

Up the track slowly climbed where the land climbed,
And a sudden avenue of trees appeared -
Tall ash and beech and oak stood as if to guard the field from the walker
Or the walker from the field, or the field from the wind,
Or because a long dead farmer was disturbed by the uninterrupted crops
And craved a friendly row of saplings to cheer him on a summer morning
Like this summer morning.
That farmer is dead and these trees, these immortal trees have grown,
Have put out sprouts and shoots and saplings of their own to fill the gaps,
And I was cheered by them all.

Now the avenue ended hard against the flanks of the hill,
And instead of following the path around to a second farm
And more fences and cattle and hens,
I chose the wild ancient track
That traverses the hillside steeply
Through groves of gorse and hawthorn,
Breathing deep yellow gorse-flower scent
And delicate bittersweet hawthorn-flower scent.

Here rabbits scurried almost underfoot
Through warrens as ancient as the tree avenue,
Where their families have lived through countless generations,
A noble lineage, arriving with the Romans,
Another immigrant gone native. They nibbled grass and watched me
With careful eyes. But I did not approach them, only spoke gently,
And their ears twitched in greeting.

High I climbed as the sun now climbed,
And honest sweat slicked my arms where I rolled my sleeves back.
The track was steep and rough,
And though it left the gorse thickets and meandered under friendlier trees,
Clinging perilously to the slope it seemed to me,
Their great weight and height in perfect balance just for now,
Still my breath came quick and my pace slowed with each step.
I stopped more frequently – to admire the view as well as rest.
But just as it seemed I could take no more, as if the hill and the steep climb must last forever,
I reached the top. The ground levelled off. There was another fence to climb
And I climbed it.

And now, at last, the wide world round opened herself to my gaze.
The sun was free of the sea and the land and soared overhead.
I felt the breeze that only the birds and the treetops felt before,
And it cooled my arms and face and made me laugh with gladness.
I heard my laughter echo across the hills, and down over the fields and through the town,
And I imagined the housewives at the market stall,
The commuter at the railway platform,
And the sailor putting out to to sea, hoisting his sails to catch that same morning breeze,
I imagined they caught that echo of laughter
As if a distant friend were calling them to look up,
And they looked up.

Dogs

in my dreams they run ahead
runners slice white crystal shards of ice
ptarmigan explodes from snow banked high
against a tangled tree felled
by blade or spate or snowfall too thick
I am too thick to think quickly and

in my dreams they run ahead
we follow the winding river trail
where the water wells up we cut upriver
clinging close to the bank
when the banks run close together
winding down the center where the ice is wide and

in my dreams they run ahead
sail tails held high
in this immense non-sense of no-man’s land
though the snow tells me no tale I can hear
all their ears are pricked to pierce
what mystery lies thickly all around and

in my dreams they run ahead
where the music that is not imagined
is the percussion of shifting snowshoes
the rattling chains and their own chant
the panting keening whine
the time varies but the lyrics stay the same and

in my dreams they run ahead
in their dreams they hunt their hunt
a string of crystal stars bound tight
the bite bound the snarl beaten down
eyes glitter at the slightest sound
Drops of blood fall from their ice-cut paws and

in my dreams they run ahead
never tiring always glancing back
gauging how well the leader in the back
paces the leader in front of the pack
at either end we stretch a warm mobility between
find neither lacking and no one slacking
her mind and mine keep our world stretched taut and

in my dreams they run ahead

When Skylarks Sing

[The tune to this is based on "The Lily of the West" as heard sung by Joan Baez.]

When skylarks sing in spring, my love,
My thoughts turn home to you.
It rises joyous to the sun,
Flies high above us every one,
And vanishes into the blue.
When skylarks sing in spring, my love.

I think about our home, my love,
When wolves howl all around.
I think of cakes and cups of tea,
And how you touched me tenderly,
All in our bed, without a sound.
I think about our home, my love.

I think about your face, my love,
When the rain pours down.
I see both joy and sadness there,
I run my fingers through your hair,
And kiss away your lonely frown.
I think about your face, my love.

But I have gone away, my love,
As punishment for crime.
I am my own worst enemy,
There is no other remedy,
No reprieve, I’ll do my time,
Now I have gone away, my love.

Look for me in the spring, my love,
When skylarks take the air.
A wandering beggar at your door
Will ask for just a little more,
And suddenly you’ll see me there.
Look for me in the spring, my love.

When skylarks sing in spring, my love,
My heart turns home to you.
It rises joyous to the sun,
Flies high above us, every one,
And vanishes into the blue.
When skylarks sing in spring,
Look for me in the spring,
When skylarks sing in spring,
My love.

Deirdre’s Lament

[This poem/song is taken from the Irish story of Deirdre of the Sorrows, and for the tune I used Burn's "Scots Callan o' Bonnie Dundee" as heard sung by Mairi Campbell, on the album "The Winnowing" by The Cast, consisting of Mairi and her partner Dave Francis (Culburnie Records, CUL104). ]

Do you remember when I dreamed of this?
On the shores of Loch Ness, in the days of our bliss,
I dreamed of a dove, with mead in its mouth,
Pursued by a hawk, red with blood, from the South.
And now you lie beautiful, down in your grave,
Between your two brothers, whom you couldn’t save.

Naois, oh Naois, my husband, my love,
With soft-spoken words and the eyes of a dove,
Men will remember your sword of bright steel,
But your wife will remember how you made her feel,
On the shores of Loch Ness, in the days of our bliss,
Before that dark night when I first dreamed of this.

I was a fair maiden, the world was unknown,
When first I espied you, your raven hair shone,
And flew like the pennant when men go to war,
To meet their sad fate on death’s lonely black shore.
You rode with your brothers, whom you couldn’t save,
Now the three of you, lovely, lie down in one grave.

Our story is strange, our story is long,
A poet might tell it one day in a song,
Might tell of my father, a harper they say,
Who foresaw my sad fate and then sent me away,
He foresaw how the dove with the mead in its mouth
Would be killed by the bloody red hawk from the south.

He foresaw how my laughter and bonnie bright smile
Would one day the King of all Ulster beguile,
And Connor would send many men to their graves
That a kiss from these ruby red lips he would have.
For my smile did the brave men of Ulster make war,
And meet their sad fate on death’s lonely black shore.

Oh you were my fate, my fairest of fair,
The finest of Ireland, with raven black hair.
You were my fate, and I was your weird,
And this bloody black day is the day my Da feared,
When the finest of Ireland is laid in his grave
Between his two brothers, whom he couldn’t save.

But you tried to save them, and that was your doom,
Now you lie close between then, and yet there is room.
I’ll lie down beside you and cross to the isle
Where the dead men of Ulster may yet see me smile,
And there I will find you and there we will kiss,
As we kissed at Loch Ness in the days of our bliss.

To the Holy Mountain

The humble pilgrim, her soul yearning upwards,
Fingers flexing, begins her long crawl
To the distant peak, the holy mountain.

Inch by inch, nook by cranny,
Finges and toes, crawling, climbing,
Her past shrinking, her view expanding.

Her face, pressed to the rock’s face,
Fingers prying, feeling and prodding,
Nook and cranny, the hard smooth surface.

Climbing higher, the world falls away
With every inch, farther from the earth,
Stripping illusion, face against the rock.

Arms aching, legs straining,
Filters failing, pure sensation,
The way is endless, she is suspended.

The only way is up, the familiar has fallen,
She is trackless on the rock, gravity her compass,
Fighting its insistence, that she descend.

Cold wind, hot sun.
If she let go, would she soar?
The thermals lift her, to the top?

Fingers and toes, crawling, climbing,
Time is lost, her life is lost,
The world is lost, rock and sky is all.

Then the top, the utmost peak,
The journey’s end, the final rest,
The world’s wide circle, spread before her.

She has shed herself, somewhere down there,
Filters failed, illusions stripped,
Eyes and heart wide open, she has found her life.

The Wind in the Door

I am the wind in the door
I am the glowing ember at the hearth’s heart

I am all that you seek
I am all that you fear
I am your secret heart’s desire

I am the dry leaves rattling to the ground
I am the unfurling green elder leaves
I am the lamb
I am the ewe

I am the hammer that rings on the anvil
I am the bellows that fan the flames
I am the flame
I am the anvil
I am the ringing of steel on steel

I am the fever that burns you inside
I am the fever’s cure

I am the candle that burns in the window
I am the music you hear in the distance

I am the look in your lover’s eyes
as you lie warm in bed, falling asleep

Invitation to the Dance

Why have you forsaken me?
Where now your fair summer form?
Where the soft kisses on my mouth,
And the swift invitation to the dance?

You hide your face in darkness,
Sheets of rain discourage me.
A single candle lights my way,
A fragile flame cupped in my hands.

A season of sleep
A season of night
A season of cold
A season of death
A season alone

Summer mead in winter
My only memory of you.
Bone-crunching cold without,
I light a bright fire within.

Laughter, mead, a merry tune,
While outside you prowl.
Rattling the window panes with sleet,
Crying to be heard.

I hear your voice
I feel your touch
I taste your tears
I smell your breath
I see your face

Your face is gentle and so sad,
The lines of age are etched thereon.
Memory of light is in your eyes,
A deep spark down within your soul.

Come and dance with me again,
I hear your whisper in my heart.
I leave the mead and merry tunes,
And spin into the swirling snow.

I dance with cold
I dance with dark
I dance with ice
I dance with night
I dance until I sleep

Generations Marched Away

They say Samhain is that time of year
When you can feel ancestors near
The veil between the worlds grows clear
And thin as lace
You feel that you could reach out – here -
And touch a face.

But “ancestors” is a lofty word
A whisper down the ages heard
When ancient deeds and works occurred
Now indistinct
Lives and feelings long interred
Almost extinct

Now my own Dad died not long ago
A blink of time, as these things go
My Grandad, Nana, Gran – ditto
And yet it seems
They live yet in my heart and soul
And in my dreams

Their fathers, mothers – their family home
Now seen in pictures, faded grown,
Were by them dearly loved and known
With feelings fresh
And made their souls and skins and bone
Flesh of our flesh

So generations marched away
Passing their love down to this day
As we will pass it, if we may
And gods allow
By how we act and what we say
Here and now

Raise now a cup to family dear
Gone from this world, but always near
Leave in your glass a drop of cheer
And to them prove
That we still feel their presence clear
In present love

Chasing the Goddess

Light through the trees – this is the norm -
green-dappled, russet, gold;
it plays across your naked form
like divinity poured into a mould.

It can’t be just me who sees in your face
beauty, not just my moon struck dream,
though you’d deny this evidence of grace,
your faceted reflection in a stream.

You are no dream – a woman flesh and blood -
your life so full it spills into my soul -
and lying with you in this wild wood -
I feel, for the first time, whole.

I am no dream either, manhood is all I claim,
and you make that enough – no irony – no shame.

Testimonial

This old body, old friend, we’ve been through a lot.
I haven’t always been good to you — too cold, too hot,
too thin, now too fat, out of tone, drunken, drugged,
but I’ve kept you from real trouble, never beaten or mugged …
You’ve been nimble when needed, strong when it counted,
you’ve climbed me up mountains, on bright mornings mounted
cloud-reaching granite domes to hear the high hawk’s cry,
at night lain me amid the forest litter to watch the sky
wheel with stars. You’ve taken me into the warm flesh
of Woman, and you have begotten children, fresh
souls with tiny bodies to carry them through life
as you’ve carried me. And through all the joy and strife
you’ve kept the spark burning … so I raise you a toast
of clear spring water, from humble guest to gracious host.

Imbolc

Green leaf uncurling
On a gnarled elder tree
Green spring unfurling
Its flag and heraldry

The rain is cold, the wind is strong
And yet the world is turning
With sunlight and birdsong
And green leaves uncurling

The Land of Breakup

I once upon a time lived in this place
where there was never a spring –
only breakup. Breakup is when the last trace
of binding ice melts and the only thing
That’s left is mud. Mud you sink right down in,
past the tops of your high top boots,
mud deep deep down enough to drown in,
down to where worms crawl through the roots
of stunted trees, until you hit another sheet of ice,
the kind of ice that never melts. It’s permafrost:
A cold dark place under the mud — no sun — not nice.
The kind of place where a soul gets lost.

I like it better now there’s a spring — warmth below and above,
And flowers, and the promise of hope — and no mud — and love.

Unknown Ending

 Three dark objects dropped into the pot
A cauldron, bubbling
The fire beneath is burning bright and hot
The potion, troubling

First, betrayal: an ugly rotting heart
Black twin beating
Has it always been there, from the start
All goodness eating?

Next, neglect, a knotted length of rope
Hard and dried out
Each knot a choking stop to someone’s hope
When soul cried out

Last, fear: an animal with staring eyes
Shivering with fright
From my own living body I reach and prise
Into the light

This fear’s the hardest thing to kill
Hold it under
I long to save it, keep it safe – still
I hold it under

It kicks and thrashes, howls and scratches
This fear is strong
I waver, until I see my face his matches
I stare long

But now it breathes its last and sinks
Though not yet dead
I feel his pull, we share the same instincts
And sense of dread

Step away from the cauldron now at last
Leave it to stew
Till twelvemonth and one day have past
Then drink the brew

The ending of this poem is yet unknown
A tale unsure
I must drink that final bitter draught alone
To kill … or cure

Cat’s-Paw Love

Catch me if you can, cat’s-paw love,
Always trying to swallow me whole;
Run fast, or drop silent from above
Onto my heart and devour my soul.
Love, you prying fool, you made a mistake -
I don’t love her and never will,
Never take a bite from that sweet cake -
Even if she bade me eat my fill.

Why won’t you believe me, cat’s-paw?
I can’t think or talk as fast as you,
Love, who will not listen but will eat me raw,
Savagely, and bite my heart in two.
Or if she loved me – then would you let me live?
Never mind – that’s not a promise I can give.

Paul Milne
7-2-91

On Leaving Juneau

The darkest days are quiet; ripples lap the rocks;
Our faces face the weather here like stone.
A gull cries out – its hunger echoes down the docks;
The ferry sails to harbor, furtive and alone.
We two are largely silent; the moment we have hated
Fast approaches, like the ferry running late.
Her face is pale, her hair bright red unfaded -
A flame in darkness, angel at the gate.
I’m leaving, but our bodies haven’t learnt this fact.
It starts to rain; she hides her face against my chest;
I stroke her hair – no use to try and leave intact -
No sun, no sudden breakthrough from the west.
So small they grow so fast – the docks, my life, her face -
A glimpse of flame, then she goes down without a trace.

©Paul Milne

Senryu for Robert Burns

1.
Frozen ground in January
Snowdrops push up through the mud
The poet is born

2.
Greedy boy!
Only the first of many
Your mum’s breast

3.
Music in your head
You push the plough through stoney earth
The earth pushes back

4.
You booked passage to Jamaica
In Edinburgh, someone read a poem
Almost a new world

5.
Gold and fame were yours
But you had other things on your mind
Women and song

6.
By day you rode
Checking weights and measures
By night, candlelight and pen

7.
You played a fiddle
Scratched out the ancient tunes
Your pen scratched more sweetly

8.
You played with women
Told some lies and told some truths
Loved the babies

9.
Illness and fever
There was no remedy for this decline
Only cold sea-water

10.
Death came
In the prime of your manhood
Deaf to your songs

Paul Milne

A Perfect Moon

A perfect crescent moon in the frozen western sky
Brighid smiling over an arc-lit pitch
A laughing moon, a moon to make you cry
A moon to make you spread your wings and fly

All this moons lacks is a wicked, wicked witch
Dangling a shapely leg among the stars
Or a wolf running through the trees to find his bitch
And pausing to to howl, unearthly, eldritch

A frozen puddle beside a hulking car
Glitters, frost etched on it like a poem in runes
A jewel that even arc-lights cannot mar
And more eloquent than this poor poem by far

The sound of children laughing, ancient tune,
Running up the pitch to score a hard-fought try
A moment like an oasis beside an arid dune
Children laughing, playing beneath a perfect moon

Dunbar, Scotland
18 January 2006

St David’s Day

A toast to Saint David, a testament of doves,
Meekest of men, mild as milk,
Well-wrought and big bodied, water-drinker bread-eater,
Honey-master and beekeeper, hermit and blessed man.
He rose in the church, but shunned worldly riches,
Archbishop of Wales, charity was his weal.
The ground rose to meet him, greet and promote him,
But he loved best the lowly, he lived lithe and lightly.
“Do the little things”, dying he lectured them,
“As you have seen me, do you the same.”
All Wales honours him, all we who honour love,
The daffodils remind us, doves fly around us,
Our spirits are lifted, as pure as well-water,
As bright as spring flowers, on St David’s Day.
1 March 2006
Paul Milne

The Junk I Dredge

The junk I dredge from the drainage burn
Sticks, and plastic, and planks and cans
I need this water to flow freely

Even this manmade ditch needs purpose
It has music of its own to make
Music stifled by the stuff of the world

Every artifact that oozes from the silt
I feel a release when it comes free
The water flows forward that little bit easier

Mud spattered and arms aching I work on
Through the heat of the day
Thorugh the stench of the drains and the buzzing midges

Midges buzzing like my thoughts
Now illuminated in a shaft of treefiltered light
Now biting me unseen, pain coming in the dark

I finally come to the footpath bridge
Where the last massive obstacle is in sight
The last hurdle for free water

I wrench my arms, I am a wreck
But the palette comes out at last
And drawn sodden and waterlogged onto the bank

The junk I’ve dredge from this drainage burn
There’s always more junk to dredge
But at least there is release for awhile

At last there is some release

© Paul Milne
13/6/06

The Element of Earth

Two hands-full of earth, too heartful to thole
I sit by warm fire-flower, astounded and baffled

My guardian trees, mighty grove-treasure
Enter my soul’s home, tremendous tree-shamans

I feel my spine stretching, fine spinning roots touching
And pushing to Terra, to pierce her taut torso

She pulls me in swiftly, pulsating and willful
Taproot gripped firmly — trapped tight, grounded safely

I suddenly feel leaves, unfurling with love
Sprouting from fingers, springing and full-green

Light floods on my face, it lifts to the sun
Earth anchoring my spine, thinking with sap now

I fly through the seasons, flitting and senseful
First laughing spring shouting, swift sparrows and showers

Summer is glorious, sunrays glad riot
King of the forest, crowned from the first

Autumn creeps inward, to make peace in the world
Blazing with colour, but loosing clear insight

A glimpse of the end, age limping and spent
Looms deep in my heart, as leaves fall in deep drifts

Sleep now with the angels, slow winter congealing
Dreaming and ice-bound, dark down in soul’s deep

Was spring ever with me, where sports her fair form now?
Alone and bare-bone branched, long barren and abashed

But feel that faint stirring? Bud fighting to surface
And sun coaxing saprise, soul’s call clearing sleep’s eyes

I laugh and my leaves dance, aloft in love’s deft wind
Rebirth in the wide world, berobed in the wood’s weft

I am humble before them, I honour their fair forms
Life lessons they teach me, long-reaching and touching
Earth feeds them and feeds us, hearts full from her favour
We all are her bright bairns, and wildwood our brother

Dunbar, Scotland
22/05/06
©Paul Milne

Blessing for Midsummer

Bright blessings I shower, brought blithely from Scotland,
From King Lot’s dominion, for clear-spoken Druids.
I sing love and camaraderie, single and chorale-made,
I sing sea-swell and clear light, swallow-flight and clàrsachs,
Musically I greet you, masters of green yoemanry.

I give you my right hand, I gift you my red heart,
My voice uplifted is yours, with love I uplift it.
I dance joyous greeting, I doubt you’ll jump higher,
I leap to the clouds, I laugh for clear days,
I conjure bright sunshine, for Queen Bridget I send it.

For high days and holy days, for summer and dog days,
When greenery grows high, grass and green wheat,
Fruit on the vine swells, for wine and for sweetmeats,
Bees making honey, bright mead for the hearth,
Life lightly is leaping: lithe, lissome and happy.

So stand hand in hand, sing loud heart to heart,
Sing Awen to high hills, to echo in heaven,
Sing loud so I hear you, sitting at hearthside,
In the north lands I wait here, for Awens I listen,
Hearts singing in harmony, on High-Summer morn.

7 March 2006
Dunbar, Scotland
©Paul Milne

Poetry’s a Bloody Joke

Poetry’s a bloody joke
Why not just say it straight
The weight of words a heavy yoke
A mask for simple love and hate

Why not just talk plain talk
I don’t love you, life is pain
I long to see you, let’s take a walk
The earth is lovely in the rain

I feel so lonely, where is God
Why do you always turn away
When I don’t see you I feel odd
Just how I can’t exactly say

Pretty words can only say so much
Sometimes we only need to reach, and touch

Paul Milne
20/2/07
Dunbar