Today's blackbird, with worm.
I looked for the blackbird in the blackbird's eye. The blackbird looked in mine, and saw itself.
I tell the man in the the Grove with the Jack Russell how much I enjoy watching the dog race after the ball which he throws for it. He hurls the ball as far as he can and even before it has left his hand, the dog is after it, anticipating its trajectory. It usually catches it on the bounce. When it returns it puts the ball down and dribbles it like a footballer avoiding a tackle, before stepping back to await the next throw. "It's good for my arm," says the dog's owner.
Today the rain is like a fine spray. It is warm, good growing weather.
I misread you thinking you'd said: "dribbles like a footballer", a more apt piece of ambiguity capturing so well the ethos of these sporting heros, so recently emerged from an earlier inability to control their saliva, and now launched into the terminal phase where people get paid to mop up these and other indiscretions.
By the way, "Do not go gentle..." is a vilanelle. Certainly an opportunity to rage, rage against soccer players.
Yes, footballers spit don't they? There used to be a penalty for doing that on London buses.
I have known that poem longer than I have known what a vilanelle is. And somehow I had overlooked its status. I heard Dylan Thomas reading that poem twice, once at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London. His hand shook, as he intoned it in his almost too musical voice, from the effects of drink rather than emotional engagement with the subject.
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