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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 36, Volume 10 Number 4, March - April 1984.

A Terminal Moraine James Fenton
It's simple but I find it hard to explain
Why I should wish to go from the moraine.

Below me in the wide plains I can see
Straight roads through flat fields, a measured sea.

At night with its orange lamps the city raised
To a dome, the fields lost under haze.

Above where a vein of granite and a stream
Are indistinguishable sometimes the crags seem

To totter against the moving clouds. Those dots
Of orange represent climbers on the rocks.

At night I can see nothing of the valley behind,
Though from the bleating of the sheep my mind

Constructs with points as on a graph the curved
Recess. A stream gathers and swerves

A few yards before my hill. Here there are trees,
Mainly pines, and every sudden breeze

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