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Geraldine Mac Burney Jones  was born in Gaiman, Chubut, in 1984. She is a poet and a lawyer graduated from the Catholic University of Córdoba. She published Vestal de luna (2012), Cancion para un alma en vilo( 2018) and Garmon o esa vieja musica de nieve (2019). Her poems were selected for the anthologies: Patagonia Literaria VI. Poetry anthology of southern Argentina (San Juan Bosco University of Patagonia and Friedrich Schiller University, Jena, Germany) and R. S. Thomas Poetry Festival, Wales (2019). Her work has been presented in numerous literature magazines of Latin America and Wales. She resides in Llanrwst, North Wales from where she collaborates with La Ninfa Eco, an online cultural magazine. 

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Stay green. 
Never mind the machine, 
Whose fuel is human souls. 
Live large, man, and dream small. 

‘Lore’, R. S. Thomas 

Believe me. 
The colour of desire is like a blood shell 
and its beat is a necklace  
where men write their days  
with mercury wings. 

Go, messenger, to the cities 
where the flocks awake weary 
and the stars chew oil smoke. 
Can you see the sky blacked out? 

But you are unable  
to look into what 
you have been lent 
and destiny 
seems a melted dream 
spouting from a looking glass. 

Come to the shadows, 
look at the flowers betraying the machines, 
laud the trees leaking leaves 
and embroider your scars with dew. 
Listen. 
Listen to God speaking silently 
while he makes us of night and dreams and terror. 

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I lean far out from the bone’s bough 

knowing the hand I extend 

can save nothing of you but your love. 

‘Seventieth Birthday’, R. S. Thomas 

Home 

I think of you 

going through blue woods, 

surprised to find you 

                                         silent, 

wearing your legs out 

while the sun leans its head 

on the grey green mountains. 

Now the dusk 

is a mongrel dust 

of fact and fiction. 

It does not matter. 

By now you will be watching 

the insects, 

hovering like a freak 

under a new skin. 

Your mauve wings 

may be sailing into the night 

like bird needles. 

Do they call these things stars, 

glazed pebbles suspended from the sky 

but I prefer to think that it is you, 

the steep sunlight of the mountains, 

a steamed song breathing through the chestnuts, 

a crumbled space to rest and cease.