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| John Clare (1793-1864) |
By Bob Boldt
[Note: As a professional filmmaker for more than half a century, I love juxtaposing images and sounds. I don’t climb tall buildings or hang out of helicopters anymore to capture sounds and images. Now I prefer to use words to make my movies.]
My father found a badger under our garden shed,
with a thick necklace of blood-black ticks
sucking the last life from his mute self.
One sad eye regarded us as if to say, resigned.
