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The Sculptor

The years have made him blind
Both to his work and praise -
Now he sculpts with his fingertips
What others appreciate with their eyes.

Whilst they are marvelling at symmetries
Of form, and the artist's self deprecating irony
He is washing down stonedust with a pint
In his local - they know his habits.

And while critics strain to fathom
His inner vision, adding words upon words
To those already written, he is filling out form P37
For a new set of National Health glasses.