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Dreams of Children
by RALPH DARTFORD

Walking up the hill to the poetry class,
talking to myself as if a madman, of how,
tonight, I’ll encourage the students
to write vivid and historical verse.

I’m trying to remember the words 
to ‘Strange Fruit’ and also to turn
willpower over to a god of my own
understanding. It’s hard work.

I note with hope the cheap Christmas lights 
that pulse the November houses. The miners’ 
hours long given away to call centres, 
the credit peddlers, the dreams of children.

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