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 Poetry by Don Paterson 
						In the same way that the mindless diamond keepsone spark of the planet's early fires
 trapped forever in its net of ice,
 it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
 but the atom of the love that drew it forth
 from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
 begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
 suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's -- boastful
 with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
 but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
 the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
 like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.
 
 Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
 sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.
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