Down on the Sussex coast life bails away,
twined with lines of comfort,
the certain progression.
Standing in a field I got no need to make mad,
yet mad I spring.
I’m always crying out for the bold, great paths of golden hay, momentary footprints,
they sing out,
burned into the hillside,
carrying last wisps of the confluent.
We’re trapped! They sing.
The sad lament of those killed by choice.
Never a certain route delved. Mumble along poor citizen,
poor inhabitant of Sussex.
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