Huw Riddington

I am a writer.

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From the Window

There is spit and spite and fight, In the day for me, But tears conduct the music of the spruce tree.   There is cuss and fuss and enough of us, When you are close to me, Till distances gaze of the sewing fingers of the spruce tree.   There is nothing, not a sound …

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A Season

Summer is falling into Winter, As man gives the wood another splinter, I work the land with my bonfire done, Managing the world so its health is won.   The trees have been shook down to their roots, The wind was dancing in walking boots, The leaves are the warmest of nature’s colours, Falling forever, …

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