Best Poem of Ian Bowen

Long As A Vet's Glove
Throughout past movements
of my blunted feather pen,
my mind has been
controlled by frustration.
Pages of depleted reams litter
the cold stone floor
of this uninspiring shed.

Those pins of medals,
never make holes
in my sweat-soaked vest.
No accolades are ever
thrown my . . .
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***dying Of Time***
Now in my grey-haired heart,
Flows the blood of seasons past.

Those pastoral beats, that once surged
In a sea of windmill leaves.

My haygold, harvest days, warmed
My cockles; all splashed in sun.

There was no chill that gripped and snapped,
When winter laced my hills in white.

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