A.R.D. Fairburn

This stubborn beach, whereon are tossed
white roses from the sea’s green bough,
has never sheathed a Norman prow
nor flinched beneath a Roman host;

yet in my bones I feel the stir
of ancient wrongs and vanished woes,
and through my troubled spirit goes
the shadow of an old despair.

© A.R.D. Fairburn

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Last updated 23 June, 2002