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How can I smile and make it right? For sixty days and eighty nights and not give in and lose the fight. Going back to the ones that I know, with whom I can be what I want to be. Just one week for the feeling to go and with you there to help him then it probably will. Give sixty days for just one night. Something stirs back in the homeland, times are hard, drowning in melting mortgage. Father T faces tough decisions.

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Mulls it over. Interrogates his inner conscience. Back and forth, to and fro. Consult the family pack? Share the weight? No, best quietly act before too late. My cellphone wakes me in the morning. Have to get up to answer the call. Soon to go back to the family where no one need ring him at all.

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Exploring deep folds of velvet green in these French and Italian ways. And there stands he, contemplating, wondering which way to go. Wandering through fields of old Europe, freely breathing, hale, hearty and trim. This soft life is getting me down.

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Get to grips with the farm and the family. No return to old Oxford town.

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Turned our fields from green to silver into steel rails, freeways rumbling. Debts all paid, but a life betrayed; heritage torn away. Nine miles of two-strand topped with barbed wire, laid by the father for the son. Good shelter down there on the valley floor, down by where the sweet stream run.

Now they might give him compensation. They say they gave him compensation. Now all he has left is a broken-down pickup truck: looks like his farm is a freeway. They forgot they told us what this old land was for. Grow two tons the acre, boy, between the stones. This was no Southfork, it was no Ponderosa. But it was the place that he called home. And what does he want with a million dollars and a pickup truck when he left his farm under the freeway?

Pick up eight pieces and take a chance. Sod and turf cleared of thicket and bramble. To plant in meticulous rows. Bought ourselves a heavenly plot in Wiltshire plains of Shalbourne.

Parcel of acres — not a lot — enough to raise a few cows and sheep and grow some corn, maybe to eke a living while Daddy works his strange ways as Daddies often do. Maybe I can learn to help with scientific learning. What the heck? Experiment, try this, try that; inspired investigation. No good trying to jump off when the train has left the station. Here we wallow in prosperous pasture. Piggies sipping from a shallow trough. Tired old ways to modify and alter; greener hands both on and off.

From crucible by slim pipette, flask and dropper, petri dish. Out of wedlock, ill-conceived? But now she will eat her fill. Transgenic, cool mechanic. Think botanic, still organic. Busy beaver, lab-rat manic; to you I might seem quite satanic Delivering the fruits of Frankenfield. I breathe the heady air.

A deep infusion. I feel furtive roots a-stirring. No brief illusion. Shout Eureka, hide and seeker. Giver, taker, money-maker. Offered half a decent chance, this could be a real earth-shaker. Delivering the fruits of Frankenfield. Nothing grows like this. Turn away from dark suspicion.


No ill wind blows like this. Let me bring you songs from the wood: poppies red and roses filled with summer rain. Let me bring you all things refined: Golden wheat and barley bright in palest ale. Greetings well-met fellow, hail! I am the wind to fill your sail. When wet winds blow and harvests fail. Inventor of new ageless times, in kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.

Let me bring you love from the field: germination, growth and yields beyond your dreams. It is precisely what it seems. We are the cats who licked the cream; the engineers who raised the steam. Glad bringers of these ageless times with kitchen prose and gutter rhymes. The luminous light of the darkened laboratory bathes him, cajoles him, nurtures and raises him up from obscurity, muddling non-entity climbs to new pinnacles where the clear view amazes him. In strange and wonderful ways, some things combine to make sweet alchemy.

Through grey and dangerous days, I walked a line stretching out to the west of me,. Following the sun. Chasing the milky moon. Investment morning, return in the afternoon. I make my name and fortune, my name in history. I feed the world and the world feeds me. Patents and copyright laws exist to protect and ensure my destiny.

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Lawyers with sharp teeth and claws further my aims to monetise botany. I hide, you seek. I worked my proverbials off to do right by you. Hi-tech to reap what we sow; my gift and my legacy there in plain sight of you.


I miss those old days when we simpletons sallied through woody leaf mould and as new lovers dallied by trickly streams and tickly nettles to lie where the whirling seed sycamore settles. Once, I used to join in; every boy and girl was my friend. Let us close our eyes; outside their lives go on much faster.