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By Philip Quirke

Because you have a song, sing,

however weak your voice

or hesitant your harp or flute.

If your hand can hold a brush, paint:

wild-flower meadows, bare oak trees,

and the rainbow, even as the rain still falls.

When words come tumbling, write,

the pen will lead your hand to draft,

rewrite, and write again,

to shape the image to the intuition

that life – its fragmented notes and colours –

is worth the whistle.


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