Balance

If there is a beginning, then there has to be an end,

that’s logic says the learned man, with a slight nod of his head;

yet that annoying statement leaves too much to be desired

and so throughout the age of man more speculation’s been applied

to the penetrating question of what life is all about.

*

“We’re here today and gone tomorrow,” says the easy-going chap

“My granddad reckons that is so, ’cause he’d been told it when a lad.”

“There ain’t no more to life, so might just as well live it up!”

“No! No!” cries the local vicar, in a pulpit higher than the pews.

“From where I stand I’ll have you know there’s a very different view

there’s the theological question of what life is all about!”

*

Now if I’d had the patience, and been assured by what he’d said,

I’d most likely have agreed with him, as I lay back thinking on my bed;

fact is, I couldn’t stand the way he reckoned he knew best:

confess and get things off my chest, and follow what he said on

the religious set of questions on what life is all about.

*

The world is getting smaller, day by day I know it’s so

for mass communication presents so much more for me to know;

there’s religions, creeds and churches, some good and some that stink

and most that tell me what to do, and just a few that make me think

about the spiritual question of what life is all about.

*

I dreamed last night I’d floated to the space high above the earth

where my view was clear, unimpeded by the happenings below;

there was balance, there was beauty, a harmony of colour and of form

no sign of any discord from the hostilities I’d known, caused by

the all-embracing question of what life is all about.

*

Awaking the next morning, feeling fresh and full of life

I resolved that I’d tell no-one of the things I’d dreamed about;

that I’d simply get on with my life, while life was mine to hold

believing that eventually these things would all work out.

That’s what I think, anyway….is what life is all about.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

I am here

I wrote this poem in 1994 after I was prompted to think back to when I was still a Minister of Religion at Mt Eden Baptist Church, Auckland, some 30 years prior. As part of that role, I became a visitor at the nearby Mt Eden Prison, where I was free to come and go, having no past connection with the inmates or their families. I was also there in case an inmate wanted to see a Minister of Religion, and though it was rare for that to happen, a few times it did. I’d see the inmates in the prison chapel, to listen mostly, never to preach, admonish or suggest what they should do to change things – they’d worked through all that themselves in their prison cells.

I was moved one time as I sat in the visitor’s room, taking in how women (wives, sisters, daughters or mothers), waited for their man, some with small children in varying stages of awareness, quiet and new to the hostile environment, waiting for their daddy to walk out and hug them close and whisper his love for them. Man and woman whispered together in case fellow inmates should hear and see them in their tender moments, a few with tears flowing. And then they held their child or children, and their faces softened with love as they held them close, feeling and breathing their tenderness deep inside, learning what it was like now, to be a father, as well as a husband, a soul-mate, and an inmate.

So, this is what I wrote of my memories of that time…

*

May I tell them of the anguish that you feel deep inside,

outsider, oh so lonely, even ‘midst the noisy thronging crowd;

tell them you don’t fit the scheming pattern of their minds,

deeply hurt by their unthinking laughs and taunts and cruel jibes?

*

May I tell them that the lack of confidence you often feel within,

at school, in sport or following the well-known family tune;

is because you are afraid, and you don’t want to let them down,

from those high ideals they’ve set for you all along the line.

*

May I tell you too, I also know at times you are so scared,

condemned by your own feelings, fearing you have lost your way;

I know you sometimes want to run and never stop,

to end the dreadful nagging pain, or else you’ll blow your top.

*

I know the inmost thoughts that often haunt and torment you,

know that your body will dictate and yes, at times, embarrass you;

I know you are afraid of the long nights and the days,

I know you can’t just pack up your bags and vanish clear away.

*

The lecture they have given you, you know it off by heart,

heard it so bloody often that it’s forcing you apart;

you know you cannot reach the goals they have damn well set,

hate the thought of growing up like so many people you’ve met.

*

May I tell you know, for you need to know before this day is through,

your parents, friends and loved ones really do deeply love you;

they hesitate and do not speak, not sure of what to say, so

scared of hurting you, lest you take flight and hide away.

*

Let me tell them then, who love you, of the things you cannot say,

that life is so frustrating dealing with each muddled day;

there are times you know you need them, and times too when you don’t;

why do they get so angry when you rock the blasted boat?

*

I am here, an intermediary, only a step away – I wait,

knowing I could stand between those close to you who care;

now, you must learn to trust me, that I see both sides and know,

I am the answer to your question: look around you, I am here.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1994

You can read an interesting blog post about conditions and riots in 1965 at Mt Eden Prison by a fellow New Zealand, here:

Inner spring

‘Old man weeping’ from volume “82 prints engraved by F. Bartolozzi, etc, from the original drawings of Guercino, in the collection of His Majesty”

*

I weep sometimes to see a shining golden dawn awed by the sheer wonder of it all,

thankful that the glorious hues I see lift me from the burdens of the day.

*

I weep at the boundless energy and promise of the young on this amazing planet, terra firma, home of man,

with wonders past, present and still to come, beckoning the inquiring, adventurous schemers on.

*

I weep at the strangers I have let pass by, for some I know I could have made my friends;

so busy I, so carefree or just unaware, of the human that waits behind that vacant, hungry stare.

*

I weep angry, frustrated, by some politician’s glib outrageous lies, smiling, nodding, betraying promised election cries,

club members, secure now from their constituent’s plight, sit snugly ignoring what they were elected to put right.

*

I weep at the passing of a treasured friend, diminished, shocked, bereaved by sudden loss,

knowing well the inevitabilities of life must come to all, and I wonder where, and when, and how I’ll hear my call.

*

I weep that I’ve wasted so much of my life in useless wanderings just to pass the time,

there is so much I see now I’d still like to do, with body, mind and time still left for me to use.

*

I am aware now that I contain some inner source, some secret well enabling me to weep,

reflecting that it’s given me for my use, I bless the healing tears that down my cheeks now creep.

*

Without them what else could break the chain, releasing the soul-destroying burdens we contain,

thank God then for that hidden human inner spring permitting tears their healing balm to bring.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Assertion of identity

Young girl with a moko. Image from Whale Rider, a 2002 drama film directed by Niki Caro, based on the novel of the same name by Witi Ihimaera. The film stars Keisha Castle-Hughes as Kahu Paikea Apirana, a 12-year-old Maori girl who wants to become the chief of the tribe.

From a distance I saw

this teenager was different,

and as she came up close

I saw her moko, permanent

on her beautiful face.

*

"She's too young," suggested some,

"to wear at others' instigation

such sign upon her youthful face."

*

She appeared unmoved, disdainful

of the thoughts of others,

and with unusual maturity

for one so young, said quietly,

"That's their problem,"

and continued on her way.

*

I wondered...

were those words her own,

or where they perhaps -

as her decorated face -

imposed by proud tradition's

fierce, determinate tribal will?

*

I mused again...

or, was what had seemed to me belligerence,

simply a demonstration of an

indefinable quality of race,

which I, in my ignorance,

did not then fully comprehend?

*

Who am I...

foreigner to these shores

forty years or more,

to say it's wrong for one so young

to wear that proud insignia

of her race?

*

I had much to learn.

If she sought in truth

to assert a claim

to her own true self,

then I salute her

most sincerely for that.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Note: a moko is a Māori tattoo or tattoo pattern, usually on the face.

Free...?

How so ... when conception itself

deposits me to be, in cell of flesh?

No prior consultation,

nor explanation,

no choice offered of language,

race, or classification.

*

Nine months the sentence, entombed thus...

before the prison door opens,

and wrapped in bewildering streams of pain,

slowly I'm pushed, propelled,

expelled naked and helpless,

unchosen parents me to claim.

*

Another sentence now begins,

helpless still,

I'm bound to those who care for me.

Without them I am dead.

The very air I breath,

threatening, bacteria laden,

and food and water too...

All that sustains me is suspect, out to contaminate,

dominate, or kill.

*

Still unasked, my form controlled

by silent invisible inner means,

growing as the blueprint set,

binds me to follow customs;

an imprisoning net,

strong as any prison cell.

I'm free ... as long as I fit in,

subject my spirit to the common will.

*

Thus do some sad dispirited souls,

life ending, sum up their dreary enterprise.

Failed to discern they, that

freedom only truly prevails

where common restraint permits

each soul its freedom to exist.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Broken shells

Thought was of food

as blackbird high perched

observed cars trucks buses,

and a fair-haired youth

pedalling carefree

wheels whirring smoothly

on hard sealed road.

*

Sharp eyes focused

downwards as blackbird swooshed

hop-stepped head angled

beak pecked shell packed food;

dropped pecked picked up

shook dropped pecked

flayed on road flayed and flayed.

*

I looked again saw

only broken shell remained.

*

The youth passed by

fair hair flying

helmet from handlebars swinging

and clear inside my brain

I pictured cold hard road

waiting

'neath his humming wheels

waiting

waiting for the dropping

the shaking

for the pecking and the flaying

with only broken shell remaining.

*

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Mindful be

Again, youth's had its terrible fling,

reckless, carefree, bubbling thing,

now streams of cars flow through the town,

head for the plot in cemetery ground.

*

If only young eyes could have seen,

felt the hopeless sorrowing,

known the grief and felt the pain,

of friends and family by the grave.

*

The preacher says what he has to say,

but you don't answer, you've gone away,

left us here to weep and sigh,

to remember you as years crawl by.

*

Young life's a wild, tempestuous thing,

trying out its fledgling wings,

careless, free, racing to and fro,

seeking all there is to know.

*

Now its finished at least for you,

we who are left, we grieve for you,

robbed of your warm personality, we

learn how fleeting is our humanity.

*

In that, you may not have died in vain,

a warning giving to those who remain,

life is a precious, quicksilver thing,

contained in a mortal, disposable frame.

*

Enjoy by all means what freely abounds,

of life in your family and all that surrounds,

mindful please be, if tragically finished,

we who remain will be sadly diminished.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Once

Once, I was a small boy

untried, weak, unknowing

with so many possibilities

and time passed slowly

hardly aware was I

that I was growing.

*

Once, I was an older boy

taller, stronger, impatient

knowledge seemed so slow in coming

sometimes I thought I knew

and I hardly knew

what I was knowing.

*

Once, I was an adolescent

on the threshold wanting to leave

feeling I shouldn't

knowing too I couldn't stay

some wiser one outside myself

understanding, pointed me

and I hardly knew

that I was leaving.

*

Once, I set out for a place far off

was welcomed on arriving

from those encouragements I drew

learning, growing and fulfilling

a time of satisfying enrichment found

and I hardly knew

that I was still growing.

*

Now, I'm older and somewhat wiser

more round and more self-assured

paths trod and things accomplished

thankful now for what I know

yet wondering...

where I've still to go

what I've still to know

why I needs must know...

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

Another chance

Eric Morecambe statue, Morecambe, Lancashire

*

Chance saw me born an Englishman

at no time was I consulted

regarding place or country kith or kin

glimpsed not a glimpse of any plan

just born into the Lancashire clan.

*

I would like to have been an Arab

adventurous bold and free

wearing romantic flowing robes

riding the crests of desert sands

the leader of a Bedouin band.

*

Or possibly an Eskimo

dressed in thick warm reindeer furs

skimming my fast and sleek kayak

through the melting cold ice packs

the hunter of my Inuit tribe.

*

Or perhaps even Japanese

they're small but very clever

brought up to eat with chopsticks

walk the streets in a business suit

manager of a Mitsubishi plant.

*

But I was born an Englishman

now I no longer feel insulted

it's really not been all that bad

for Arab, Eskimo and Japanese sad

they'd not been born...a Lancashire lad!

Meself as a Lancashire lad

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

International citizen

Ponder, I bid you, on our corporate existence

appearing with time, earth

and humanity's persistence.

A mystery!

along with all the rest

to rouse the mind and set the eternal quest.

*

Homo sapiens, erect, keen brain and senses,

prompted by insight sought

answers to some questions.

A revelation?

Perhaps it could have been,

presenting abstracts as possibilities.

*

Thinking and logic discerned the inbuilt pattern.

Body, soul and spirit we,

foundation of humanity.

A family.

Gregarious with outlook divarious,

nomads and tribal, populating terra firma.

*

Growing, we pledge allegiance to our nation

proud of our flag

we sing its adoration.

A tragedy

eventuates. We volunteer, take up arms

brother fighting against brother, forcing us apart.

*

History, alas, reveals its sad beginning

Cain slew Abel

or is that mere fable?

A discovery

from time to time sees progress intercede

with warfare indiscriminate, and car bombs in our streets.

*

Let's end this utter waste of brain and human flesh.

All of us are human,

kith and kin of all the rest.

Agreement

with each other, whate'er the colour of our skin.

Our own flag underneath the one, international citizen.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

Humanity Healing logo

En passant...

time pulsates on

coloured or drab by circumstance

with vaporous breath

proclaiming life exists

*

set in motion

powered by what or whom

with circumstance awaiting

only to end so soon

*

the visible and the abstract

mingle and merge you see

no longer a dichotomy

I'm now a single me

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

Envy

...written after hearing a presenter at a poetry workshop...

I'll never get to heaven now I thought

not when I'm as envious as this

damn it

he has so much

most of the things I lack anyway...

*

I mean he looked so cool as they say

easy on the eye a person

neat in dress in poise

and he spoke well too

in captivating modulating easy tones

a slight accent from his place of birth

adding a rich quality of its own...

*

He moved assured confident in his knowledge

yet his learning was not puffed up

rested easy communicated just as easy

and best of all enjoyment flowed freely as he talked...

*

Envious though I was

no real damage done in truth

rather his explanations lightened up my way

as from here and there with anecdotal words

he painted mental pictures

moving in their clear simplicity

explaining concepts some abstract

and otherwise quite difficult

and as Clint would say he made my day...'

*

Therefore if of envy I am guilty now

then let whatever judgement on me fall

perhaps standing at the pearly gates of heaven

my envy shall be seen

as only the sincerest form of praise.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

A word to the excluded...

I think tonight of those excluded

from the normal company of others

by whoever and for whatever

in village, town or city...

I think of you.

*

Somewhere tonight some are excluded

from the family of their birth

gender and cold ignorance robs them

of their true worth...

I think of you.

*

Some are in exclusion though

the politics of small minds

their iron fists and iron bars

confine them and their words...

I think of you.

*

I wonder what you miss

all you confined

kept from the normal living of your life?

Do you wonder if there's still a future

something still to look forward to

another chance for you?

*

My word to you is

'Mandela.'

*

Dennis Crompton © 1996

A journey

Today on my journey into town

a youth rode by.

His bicycle, with its wicker basket

(a relic from the past)

reminded me of journeys I had made

feet draped over handlebars

of the farm hand's bike.

*

How the wind whistled in my ears,

forcing tears from my eyes.

Sometimes he'd whistle or sing,

and an inner surge of joy

made small irrepressible laughs

bubble from my lips

as we hummed along.

*

Fairgrounds, swings, roundabouts, or

roller-coaster rides never could compare

to riding home that way, for me,

when I was seven.

*

He was young, quiet,

not given to saying much,

but he smiled a lot in a basic friendly way.

He had a good clean country smell

of animals, the barn and hay,

a homely smell to me.

*

He went away,

took another kind of journey,

and the war, you know...

and he never did come back.

I was glad, and sad,

as I remembered him today.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998

I am a father now

I am a father now, I tell you, I was there …
feeling and sharing in a secondary way
something of the searing pains my dear wife felt that day.
*
It was interminably long for her
as slowly, push by gasping … crying … straining … push
those intermittent hot pulsating surges
stretched more her pelvic frame and cervix.
This, midst low caring murmurings of her doctor and the nurses
who came and checked and whispered
went … came back again … assisted
then left us for a while, mother- and father to-be.
*
And I, helpless and with deep concern did watch
I squeezed her hand and wiped her brow
and kissed her damp, untidy perspirated hair.
From time to time, staff came and went
in crisp clean antiseptic gowns
and in-between they peered and talked and peered some more
and she, submitted to all this invading hurt
as on her crumpled sheets she wrestled there.
*
At least that’s what I thought, imagined it must be for her
I had not realized she saw beyond the drawn-out anguish of her bed.
She knew her body must become a door to motherhood
paining life’s miracle to the light of day.
*
And as a father I can tell you now, it was most wondrous to
behold the moment when my daughter entranced forth,
her tiny body holding so much hope,
as her first blessed helpless human sounds my heart did touch.
*
I had not thought when first began the process to this did span,
that it would be as I experienced now, and I first kissed this babe
of ours upon her lovely, soft and tender brow.
*
And even now, these many years gone by
my arms do feel again in memories treasured times,
her so small body snuggled warm against my chest.
And ‘membering when I first did look upon her face,
I feel those unashamed tears again spill from my eyes.
*
I am her father still, my wife and Love’s best gift,
and will they ever know what word means to me?
I, am a father now.
*
© Dennis Crompton 1994

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Images

'Clear Thinking' by Richard Price, www.richardprice.nl

In a small back room or cloistered cell

recalling things we know so well

our minds a store of cascading scenes

a glorious kaleidoscope of inner dreams.

*

In country now mid-grove of trees

breathe delicate aroma of scented breeze

beneath my feet the good rich earth

enchanted by choir of wind and birds.

*

Oft' in the darkness of the night

with wonderful eye of inner sight

strolling again remembered places

kiss and caressing familiar faces.

*

Stored personal images we thus renew

uplifting spirit with treasured views

so may people where'er we be,

blessed with our own humanity.

© Dennis Crompton 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Another day

The day that was mine today, I've spent.

It was given to me for that,

not to hide away decaying,

or lived at someone else's braying.

So I lived it, used it, spent it.

*

It will never happen again,

nor had it been before.

Today, only, it was mine,

to spend, doing what I do.

So I spent it.

*

How I spent it, used it, filled it

would be hard for me to say.

I lived it, that I know.

Today was my day, and I spent it...

What more can I say?

© Dennis Crompton 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Steel cathedrals

I like this poem very much, but it's not written by me. Read on...

*

It seems to me, I spend my life in stations.
Going, coming, standing, waiting.
Paddington, Darlington, Shrewsbury, York.
I know them all most bitterly.
Dawn stations, with a steel light, and waxen figures.
Dust, stone, and clanking sounds, hiss of weary steam.
Night stations, shaded light, fading pools of colour.
Shadows and the shuffling of a million feet.
Khaki, blue, and bulky kitbags, rifles gleaming dull.
Metal sound of army boots, and smoker's coughs.
Titter of harlots in their silver foxes.
Cases, casks, and coffins, clanging of the trolleys.
Tea urns tarnished, and the greasy white of cups.
Dry buns, Woodbines, Picture post and Penguins;
and the blaze of magazines.
Grinding sounds of trains, and rattle of the platform gates.
Running feet and sudden shouts, clink of glasses from the buffet.
Smell of drains, tar, fish and chips and sweaty scent, honk of taxis;
and the gleam of cigarettes.
Iron pillars, cupolas of glass, girders messed by pigeons;
the lazy singing of a drunk.
Sailors going to Chatham, soldiers going to Crewe.
Aching bulk of kit and packs, tin hats swinging.
The station clock with staggering hands and callous face,
says twenty-five-to-nine.
A cigarette, a cup of tea, a bun,
and my train goes at ten.

*

by Derek van den Bogaerde (1921-1999)

This was first published in 1943 in Poetry Review; other war poetry appeared in The Times Literary Supplement.

*

After the war, Derek van den Bogaerde became well-known as the actor, film star and writer, Dirk Bogarde. For more information, read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dirk_Bogarde

High Flight by John Gillespie Magee

I was presenting this poem, “High Flight” to a 4th form English class at Stratford High School when a senior school inspector entered (I'd been told this might happen). I nodded in his direction and continued.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

As a high school English teacher in the 1970s, I had been strolling around a school quadrangle under covered walkways. On these outdoor walls hung photographs of young men in their late teens or early twenties in uniforms of the armed services. These young men, mainly RAF or RNZAF, had faced the enemy in the skies. I found this poem tremendously moving, giving me an insight into the heart and mind of such a flyer.

Written by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee RCAF (9 June 1922 – 11 December 1941, aged 19 years) was an Americanaviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire, England, during World War II. He was serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force, which he joined before the United States officially entered the war. He is most famous for his poem "High Flight."

And below is more information on from: www.woodiescciclub.com/high-flight.htm

During the dark days of the Battle of Britain, hundreds of Americans crossed the border into Canada to enlist with the Royal Canadian Air Force. Knowingly breaking the law, but with the tacit approval of the then still officially neutral United States Government, they volunteered to fight Hitler's Germany.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr., was one such American. Born in Shanghai, China, in 1922 to an English mother and a Scotch-Irish-American father, Magee was just 18 years old when he entered flight training. Within the year, he was sent to England and posted to the newly formed No 412 Fighter Squadron, RCAF, which was activated at Digby, England, on 30 June 1941. He was qualified on and flew the Supermarine Spitfire.

Flying fighter sweeps over France and air defense over England against the German Luftwaffe, he rose to the rank of Pilot Officer. At the time, German bombers were crossing the English Channel with great regularity to attack Britain's cities and factories. Although the Battle of Britain was said to be over, the Luftwaffe was still keeping up deadly pressure on British industry and the country.

On September 3, 1941, Magee flew a high altitude (30,000 feet) test flight in a newer model of the Spitfire V. As he orbited and climbed upward, he was struck with the inspiration of a poem -- "To touch the face of God."

Once back on the ground, he wrote a letter to his parents. In it he commented, "I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed." On the back of the letter, he jotted down his poem, 'High Flight'.

Just three months later, on December 11, 1941 (and only three days after the US entered the war), Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr., was killed. The Spitfire V he was flying, VZ-H, collided with an Oxford Trainer from Cranwell Airfield flown by one Ernest Aubrey. The mid-air happened over Tangmere, England at about 400 feet AGL at 11:30. John was descending in the clouds. At the enquiry a farmer testified that he saw the Spitfire pilot struggle to push back the canopy. The pilot, he said, finally stood up to jump from the plane. John, however, was too close to the ground for his parachute to open. He died instantly. He was 19 years old.

Part of the official letter to his parents read, "Your son's funeral took place at Scopwick Cemetery, near Digby Aerodrome, at 2:30 P.M. on Saturday, 13th December, 1941, the service being conducted by Flight Lieutenant S. K. Belton, the Canadian padre of this Station. He was accorded full Service Honors, the coffin being carried by pilots of his own Squadron."

Now I see

The doctor shone the light into each eye of mine,

seeming to enjoy his searching,

with murmurs of wonder and obvious delight.

Then he sat back and looked at me,

‘There are wonderful things to see there…’

his face and whole demeanour

supplementing what he’d said.

 *

And then he looked again, took his time,

‘Beautiful colours, your eye is a picture

of how things are, inside you…’

*

I sat patiently as he explained this to me, thinking —

All these years I’d seen,

with eyes my window on the world,

two orbs that so much helped to make me…me,

yet I’d been blind to those inner wonders

which only then had been revealed to me.

 *

Of course there was much more;

he had but seen physical,

with his penetrating little light up close,

illuminating my illuminators...

He could not infiltrate the intangible,

see the abstract thought processes of my brain,

make the invisible recognisable…

 *

I know there is much more to me

than daily ordinary visible me,

pleasing or displeasing as the case may be,

to those in charge of supervising,

manipulating, enjoying, or enchanting,

all other forms of observing me.

 *

Now if he’d had a light to penetrate my soul,

to explain my true self to me,

I wonder, what would he have told me then?

*

Dennis Crompton © 1995

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)