dylan’s writing shed at laugharne
that shed has shed its mitred words
ragged the bard’s braggadocio no more
calls upon the moondrift tides or upon
the estuarine’s spindrift silt for
what is left when a bard has left
but a shed that has shed its heart
and only the seekers find what they seek
in the artefacts crumpled there
translucent in mirage of i thought i thought
but alas he wasn’t there
he isn’t there
he’s gone
find your own shed
on your own estuary
and read it
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