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Diana Webb

A Time

In the dining room of our thirties' semi in North London, it comes to me through the window from front plots and the tree lined street, filling me from toe to head. A shining energy. 'All this juice, all this joy,' the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins calls it. At the convent where I go to school it mysteriously pervades everything encompassed by our 'nature walks'.

wine in spring—
beyond the pub garden wall
nuns hover