His was a wintry man;
life bent him crabbed
like a thorn tree near the ocean,
shaped to gnarled contrariness.
He was a thorny man;
drink sharpened his anger,
kept his lightning bolts charged,
loose as the change in his pocket.
He was a raggedy man,
ripped by the snags that held him;
only his poetry escaped,
blazing like the gorse in June.
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