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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 13:46:02 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 149465
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Mighty Oak
[time] => 2009-04-28 07:12:24
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => He's so old, old doesn't mean anything. He just is. And He touches inside my head, Like something opening a window, With a sweet, cut grass, bumble-bee, ice-bright, Wood smoke draught. Soft warm fingers gently Exploring my face from the inside, Leaving trails in the treacle He finds. I almost hear Him sometimes, Like I've placed a shell to my ear, Or it may be I hear the quickening hiss Of blood in my veins as I strain. I almost see him sometimes From the corner of my mind, Like a speck of dust in my eye, Or a ghost. He brings me such peace. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 172 [topic] => 43 [informant] => derbypoet [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 6 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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