The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

-W.Shakespeare

Wednesday 15 January 2014

A Poem for Chester

A new aged man,
     touching ancient mossy stone,
walking alone, but not as one,
with ghosts of Romans. 
     Our conquerors and conquests,
     are our own. 
Walls, bridges, and fortifications
     of old. 
What are we trying to keep out-
What we are trying to connect to.

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