I still read Donne, particularly his love poems
Time hates love, wants love poor,/but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.
I think the dangers are different now. Our abuse of the planet and our resources is an anxiety.
You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.
Every day is a gift with a child, no matter what problems you have.
For me, poetry is the music of being human. And also a time machine by which we can travel to who we are and to who we will become.