Hope the Hermit

Hope the Hermit
An old man and I entered a village inn to take a simple luncheon,
After lunch we stood in a hamlet lane, by a mossy well, talking,
He had strolled for fifteen or twenty miles, a hard walk,
And would then leap over a stile with the activity of a boy,
The white haired man would then run up to a wilding bush,
Covered in beautiful pink blossoms he broke off a branch,
Then More

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About Terry Trainor

Hi. My name is Terry Trainor and I write poems.

Many many years ago the news ripped through the London Workhouses,
Through all Bethnel-green, Spitalfields and through the Minories,
Along Tower-hill and up to Shoreditch and Clerkenwell,
To the very purlieus of the Seven Dials, and across the water in Southwark,
Important news spread from ear to ear, overheard in chop houses, and cabs,
Blackberries are ripe, and there are mushrooms in the forest turf.

Like an electric thrill, it has darted far and wide, high and low,
In the great workshops, whether sweating over a hot iron, or folding,
Steaming dye-houses and hatteries or darting the shuttle amongst silken threads,
The bread moulders, or makers of coffins for the dead, or their nails,
To the farmers, the boys that roam the streets, and the hags in alleys,
Everywhere there is just one thought, the blackberries are ripe.

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