Time Hates Love, Wants Love

I Think All Poets Must Feel This: That There Is Constantly Something New To Be Discovered In The Language. It's Like A Thrilling Encounter, And You Can Find Things.

How Would You Prepare To Die On A Perfect April Evening?

I Write Quite A Lot Of Sonnets, And I Think Of Them Almost As Prayers: Short And Memorable, Something You Can Recite.

Time Hates Love, Wants Love Poor,/but Love Spins Gold, Gold, Gold From Straw.

If We Think Of What's Up Ahead, With Climate Change And Wars Over Water, It's Very Frightening.