This poem is taken from Poetry Nation 4 Number 4, 1975.Two Poems
Me peeling away at a loose end of bark,
these silver birches, there a stunted one,
a run of silver paint on cross-grained wood,
and underfoot the usual dumping ground.
That childish hope, when this was more a park,
to peel some silver off and catch the sun
or make a mirror. Never any good.
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