Tate Gaia

Poem By Richard George

That spider knows nothing
of the geometry, Euclid-
intricate, it gossamers.
Spectrum-dewdrops wink goodbye,

The tide breathes its mantra.
It has never heard it.

Pebbles sleep in bliss
to their sculpture by my thumb-whorl,
Henry Moore, before a hand existed.
On into neolithic evening
I comb the sea.

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Their breath was clean, or harsh and sour
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