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Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 103, Volume 21 Number 5, May - June 1995.

Tristia C.H. Sisson

It is because of exile I am here,
The utmost tip of the world, for old age
Brings one to the edge of what one lived among.
Before departure I was of that race
Which passed the time but thought of something else,
But now time fills the whole horizon:
Not what yesterday was or what tomorrow
Will bring, for what it brought is dead,
And what it will, will never come to life.
When will it pass? is all I have to ask.
No-one is implicated in that question
But I who now no longer live among
Even those who see me now as I do them.
But 'as' is not the word I should have used,
For age has given sight in its own blindness,
And no impression is conveyed to me

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