[Mhln] Bradley 


This gap in time, this season not their own,
Gray the cloud-like oaks
What is there in the depths of these walls
ï¿½The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Scrawny wolves, and you,
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
For any part of them we can make out
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Of meaning like theseï¿½the world created by
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
To pick up even the quickening of wind
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Oh you builders,
This gap in time, this season not their own,

