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Edited by Gill Burrell, Sunday, 26 Nov 2023, 09:30

Pylon in the mist

Forget these club-foot underpinnings. My mind is somewhere higher. Can you follow

me up to where I strip down to geometry?
To where the proof of a theorem must be true

because elegant. Not a nut or bolt for show, but each pleat and dart of the stress field

traced on the mist in rust- painted steel, like an intellectual necessity. Essential

me, out in all weathers wearing nothing but my purpose - an ascetic, ideal

and myself as a bare tree in winter. Possessed by a certain charisma - can you hear it,

power,  everywhere and nowhere, its dry crackling in the cloud around my head?
I Spy Pinhole Eye
Poems by Philip Gross, Photography by Simon Denison.

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