Poetry

A man and woman are weaving through the beech trees. Both wearing waxed coats, but she is much older and white haired.

In a loud voice he pronounces:

“I consider that poetry is anything written that does not contain information.”

There is a longish pause as they stride along a sodden stretch of path before she speaks.

“I thought”, she says, “that it would be a lot muddier”.

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