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Wildflower

Amid the stalks’ voice And rustling breeze, And upon the gently swaying stage A perfect purple plate Delivered So sweetly to the need Of butterfly, moth And bees: A flower for all On which to feed And...

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The Very Light

Sometimes Things just burn So vivid With spectrum Energy, Almost more Than the very light. © Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

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In The End

Our paths Seem so solid, Yet with the seasons Even the most meagre Stone strewn soil Grows vast With fertile grasses, And weeds Rampantly colonising. Our roads Are temporarily cuts In the swathes Of...

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In Her Butterfly Breath

In the air around In her warm breath In her aura. In the space That she owns, Crossed by no other. In her own land, The country Of her soul’s endeavour There are butterflies In swarms, In every...

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In The Purple World

In the purple world Beetles congregate To Perform Minuscule ablutions, Perhaps hold Precise insect conversations, Behave As if they knew Exactly what to do With their lives. © Ben Truesdale and...

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When He Manifest

When he manifest He chose A chestnut vest And trousers Laddered in hues Of orange, yellow and black. And for a hat, He took the best In finest elysium gold. © Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

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Drunk In The Thistle Head

Drunk in the thistle head, Bees become Comforted In the leisure Of the drug Emitted like scent And colour. No longer The wary leg Raised And body tilted In defensive ‘Keep away’ For heads Burrow deep...

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Voracious Hunters

Intent on the new leaf They hunt By gliding night, Sensing every Quivering first bud, Every glimpse Of a shoot Emerging From the earth’s Protective coat. And in slow, Slow pounce They are voracious In...

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Dawn Of The Blood Red Moon

Summer mist collects In pools beneath the trees, Seeps and infiltrates The copse, Coats and clings Like breath to the river bank, Disappears things To the cool substance Of dreams. The ephemeral magic...

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Simplicity

Sometimes Just the simplicity Of blue air And the golden Ripening in to it. © Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

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Brother Hedgerow

Sometimes He is broad as thicket Or enclave copse. Sometimes He is thin and sparse, With but an eyebrow’s tuft Skirting the field boundary. Sometimes He is lone bramble Upon a flat plain. But always,...

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It Rained In The Night

The air is moist And humid heavy But fresh With new rain, Still dampening down Still weighing Each leaf droopy, Each bended stalk Gravity bound. Some flower heads Are dew drunk Lively, plush And open...

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The Third Season

First scents of autumn Reach From the must loam, Impregnate the misty morn With brown crinkled signs And fruit Slack and ready For plucking. The vigour of pale youth Was a lifetime Under the high sun....

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The Energy

The thought of the flower, Though unripe Cannot be held back, For the surge Of magic Invisibly Pushes And reaches And strives To be Inexorably And irrepressibly Expressed. © Ben Truesdale and...

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Thoughtless Pollinating

When it wakes It hears the flowers Call in scents. It desires The ultra violet Of colours And the deep Well of love In which nectar pools And collects. When it wakes It thinks of nothing else But the...

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The Low Angle Sun

The stream breathes Cool and damp To the foliage hues, Moist to the hollow And bank, And Shadowed By the lateness of the hour. Only in a patch Of borrowed light Do poplars glow Golden on every leaf,...

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Root Question

No less The channelled stream, Roots Pool slowly Over a hundred years. To our fast eyes They seem still. But to the stone Looking on, They are a mass Of writhing tentacles, Searching water source Like...

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Fruiting Bodies

Fruiting bodies Like fleshy fingers Examining the other world, Of air and light. And beneath In the thready net, Mycelium reach Through the body Of the earth Drawing nutrient From the discarded...

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In A Patch Of Stone Walled Field

In a tumbledown landscape Above the sea, Olive trees flutter silver green In patches of thin earth And scattered stone, Scraped into a rough field. Over the wall A hobby of a vineyard, Draws deep-root...

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September Spider

Somehow they are flowers too, Plump and central To their strands And gossamer petals. Bodies worked at And made in secret Through the summer months Among loam and beneath leaf, Until the garden Grown...

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