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||Edwin Drood's Column
||27 November 2012
|Edwin has once more taken Miranda on a spin to some remote location beyond the reach of the known webiverse. Madame Harker, his long-suffering housekeeper, claims to have no idea how long he will be gone this time; she admits only that he has taken with him more extra-thick socks than usual.|
Fortunately, we have finally acquired, at great expense, the rights to publish some verses by the renowned Hugh Featherstone to keep our readers' brain cells ticking over during the Drood's curious absences.
|Mr Heaney's pen
I'll go out to the fields again
And dig with Mr. Heaney's pen
It isn't gold or gems I'll dig for
Nor any riches of the earth
Nor anything that men blow big for
Such as their own place in the sun
Beneath a tree that grows its figs for them
(I know what figs are worth)
But for a readership of one
I'll till these meadows yet awhile
And scratch my ragged furrow still
And sleep within my narrow berth
'til harvest when I reap a smile
And all this verse is done
From Bird under water, a selection of poems by Hugh Featherstone
© Hugh Featherstone
Another poem from this selection will appear next time the Drood's away.
The Bird under water homepage includes a foreword by Hugh Featherstone
and a linked list of the poems as they appear.
|Edwin Drood's Column, the blog by The Mysterious Edwin Drood,|
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