Ode 1 by David Pollard

It is all dross and leeward of a sigh

and half-light of our half drawn blind

against the more than east wind and the dry

dust in the always promise of mankind.

Still, let us recall what the trouvères

could only half remember, what Loris

knew he could not set to rhyme.

Those days held boisterous suns along the air;

they were a garden walled with promise,

a trinity of love and loss and time.

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