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Lower your eyes lest
The plastic bottles
And other paraphernalia of
twentieth-century man offend.
But look, oh look at the rocks.
Neither Rembrandt nor da Vinci
Could hope to catch the colours
That therein lie.
Delicate greens and browns No mallet or chisel –
Flecked with yellow and black God’s hand created these.
Were ne’er conceived Tread carefully over His beautiful artistry –
Except on God’s palette. Leave your print in the sand
Even Picasso To remain there till the next tide –
In his most extravagant mood And climb the beach.
Could not conceive the line and form, The tansy and the rose bay willow herb
The beauty and symmetry of the Will be there to greet you.
Sea slug on the slate and lime. Lose your way
Still no ugliness there. And the admiral and the tortoiseshell,
Leave the colours The dragonfly in all its splendour
And let the eye ponder on Will be waiting to lead you,
The shapes, the curves, the soothing lines. Gently and silently to the floral garden.
Still no ugliness there.
Even Moore could not create Yes – search as I may
The delicate contours that therein abound. Along the length of the Rhinns –
No ugliness there. I can find no ugliness there.
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