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Iced Age by John Greeves

When you come on Friday,

bring me a card stuffed with lions and wildebeests. My wife will be here, pouring green leaf tea.

We will sit eating dainty sandwiches and lemon drizzle cake

with voices that pebble skim seas; sipping tea and causing only minor ripples to arise.

We shall all pretend. I will inquire delicately about the passing years, your Neolithic husband, the young cubs, now hairy mammoths, if the cave prints are to be believed.

You and I, will play at Renaissance man, never revealing the plunging depths, we felt during the last ice-age, when fireside bodies merged, skin upon skin.

John Greeves originally hails from Lincolnshire. He believes in the power of poetry and writing to change people’s lives and the need for language to move and connect people to the modern world. Since retiring from Cardiff University, Greeves works as a freelance journalist who's interested in an eclectic range of topics. - 50 -

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