In the life

My piece was pat and all ready to say,
She rose first. I threw my piece away.
        My well-turned stuff
        Was not so rough
As hers, but easy elegant and smooth.
        Beginning middle end
        It had and point
And aptly quoted prophet priest and poet.
        Hers was uncouth
        Wanting in art
Laboured scarce-audible and out of joint.
        Three times she lost the thread
And sitting left her message half unsaid.
        ‘Why then did thee throw it
        Into the discard?’
                Friend,
        It had head
        (Like this). Hers oh had heart.

Robert Hewison, 1965

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