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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Day of Rain

Almost not enough light.
Cold, gloomy day,
woman with mother of pearl rain
on your face.
How spoiled I am by sun,
by warm radiance,
by people moving about,
and voices.
I stand beneath eaves.
I see the dancing glitter of water,
the harebells of silver drops
lining under branches.

Eyes seductive with sleep,
half opened lids of wonder,
the sensuous lingering
of a woman’s warmth.
The cold delight of air
brushing my face,
and the edge of my own star
touching space,
alive and well,
holding time in my hands.

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