The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps in the works of the poem so that something that is <u>not</u> in the poem can creep, crawl, flash… - Dylan Thomas

Call me Dolores. Like they do in the stories.

In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.

It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.