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This poem is taken from PN Review 2, Volume 4 Number 2, January - March 1978.

Two Poems W.S. Graham

It does not matter how are you how are
The children flying leaving home so early?
The song is lost asleep the blackthorn breaks
Into its white flourish. The poet walks
At all odd times hoping the road is empty.
I mean me walking hoping the road is empty.

Not that I would ever expect to see
Them over the brow of the hill coming
In scarlet anaraks to meet their Dad.
A left, a right, my mad feet trudge the road
Between the busy times. It raineth now
Across the hedges and beneath the bough.

It does not matter let that be a lesson
To cross the fields. Keep off the road. The Black
Wood of Madron with its roof of rooks
Is lost asleep flying into the dusk.
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