Recent Poems

(all poems copyright Kevan Manwaring 2014, please ask for permission to reproduce in any format)



The Disappearing Shore

Sometimes the opposing shore

can be clearly seen –

an undulating band of brown and green and grey

across the blue bay.

The houses of Lonemore,

in their isolated togetherness,

where civilisation seems to peter out,

coughs a single croft,

then hacks up the hairball of Big Sands.

The dour mountains watch on, an inscrutable glint in the eye.

Above, cloud upon cloud is stacked expectantly

like jumbo jets in their steady spirals of descent.

The black arrow of a cormorant draws the eye

one way, the white isosceles of a yacht, the other.

Then, the rain rolls in, tottering pillars

supporting the bloated Jove on his cloud,

casting his messy dictums down upon us

like a fat MP in Westminster.

The thin line of life

is smudged, erased.

We know in our bones another way is there.

Sometimes, glimpses remind us

of other choices we might have made,

might still make.

A vision of how things could be

plays on the inner eye when the light is faintest,

its ghost

all we have to go on

to cross that gulf of longing.

Kevan Manwaring

(written at Tom’s croft, August 2014)


The Mountains of Skye

Beyond each peak, another.

That hard-won summit

a stepping stone

to the next –

although you do not know it

until it is reached.

Epiphanies are not handed out at the drive-thru.

They must be earnt.

Ask the fellow with the scallop-hat,

the blisters and the smile.

The reveal is the reward

for the traveller’s travail.

The peaks rise in ever-increasing

majesty, as though trying to

outdo one another,

be closer to the light.

In their rough glory

hungering for the grace

of feathers and stars.

That vertiginous shift in scale

at each shrug of the glen
pushing your consciousness


There are no boxes here

to think outside of.
Glass ceilings

would not last long.

The mountains smash open the sky.

Kevan Manwaring

(written at Tom’s croft, August 2014)


Fifty Miles Further North

The moment of grace comes


not on the summit,

but on the descent.

Stopping at a stone chair

and sitting – surrendering –

to the view. And then I

finally know the mountain

knows me.

The armour has fallen away –

somewhere on the flanks

of Schiehallion, palace of the Sidhe,

I lost a shin-guard.

The inessential is stripped away

the higher you climb.

Road becomes track

becomes path becomes

the merest hint in the terrain –

a slight concentration of displaced stone.

The way ahead, guess-work.

Trust your feet. Place your mind in your sole.

The truth is finally revealed.

It was there all along.

The mountain waits for us to truly see it.

Not just another Munro-bagged, but

honouring it for itself. Seen in its own

glory. A father and daughter struggle up

holding hands – effa son gambolling ahead,

then impatiently waiting. She, I realise, has special needs

(who does not?). I comment that ‘it’s a nice day

for a walk’. The father replies, ‘It would be better

fifty miles further north.’ Yet there is beauty

right here. I look into the girl’s eyes

as I pass,

she smiles and waves,

a soul, brimming with life, shines back.


Eildon Tree

Two slim trunks entwine like lovers.

Words, ripe as rowan berries

hang poised for the plucking

from the quickening air.

Here, at the Rhymer’s Stone

worlds meet

and poetry is born.

The sun shines its benedictions down,

a fey breeze stirs the trees.

A nameless bird sings,

is replied to.

Stillness after the city,

meeting the Muse for a coffee,

hoarse from the Fringe,

heartsore from love’s disappointments,

she points me the way on the battered road atlas –

three roads to choose from:

cairn or kirk or loch.

Roots snake deep into the peat,

draw up the sap of inspiration

conjured from the alchemy of

sunlight, rain, wind and night.

I lay like Thomas of Ercildoune on Huntlie Bank,

and the Queen of Elfland rides into view –

a woman cyclist in her lycra and helmet,

exchanging a bit of banter with two old characters

about the secrets of the gates

known only to them.

They had been sitting behind the hedge

putting the world to rights.

Had I overheard?

Beneath the Eildons’ three peaks,

split it is said by a demon that

wizard Michael Scot confounded,

still to this day failing to make rope

from the sands of the Tweed,

the magical and the mundane rub shoulders.

The upper and lower get acquainted.

The unfathomable realms of man and woman,

the eternal mystery of their dance

come alive in timeless tableau.

Climb up behind the Queen,

let her guide you to her hidden kingdom.

The jingle of her rein sends you into a trance.

Long hair coiling, blood lips enticing,

the tendrils of her song

piercing your heart.

Follow her siren call

to the end of all that you know.


Be prepared to not be

the same upon your return.


Corra Linn

Corra Linn, you continue to fall for us

despite rapacious man

stealing your glory –

mill-owners creaming off the profits

from the sweat of his workers.

Power-stations, forcing you through his turbines

to drive the PCs, fridges, hot water, round-the-clock consumerism.

Quarry companies, wanting to plunder your maidenhead upsteam.

Yet still your silvery locks jumble over the jagged rocks.

Still, peace can be gleaned in your glades.

Still your verdant banks shelter

nature’s apothecary, a balm to industrial ills.





Solstice Sunset

Resisting night’s gravity

I rise to the Heavens,

clay on boots,

dusk at my heels,

slipping up to the

lonely grove on the brow,

where a year ago,

we planted a circle of hope.

Now I stand alone

in silent vigil.

Aurora of the day

sliding away, behind

Rodborough’s bear shoulders.

It is a satisfying death –

a great actor’s swansong.

A star born for this moment.

The lights fade, and, on cue,

another nova.

No desecrating ruckus

at a stone circle is needed

to mark this annual valediction – leave

the vandals to their

trilithon abuse and stoned selfies.

I have no need of the Am-dram

of dodgy rituals,

the posturing of ill-cast hierophants.

My gaze is for the sun alone.

Quietly, I say goodbye.

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2014


Burning News

The old year

is an empty grate,

solstice-black and cold

as a spurned lover’s heart.

Waiting to be filled with

kindling – scrunched news,

or the celebrity tittle-tattle

that passes for it

these days,

fat splinters of shattered tree,

glottal stops of coal,

black bile of angry mines,

the simmering earth

beneath our feet. Its fury

on slow-burn. The fuse of

ancient forests sizzle.

Coal scuttle, clatter and clinker.

With the rasp of a match,

paper curls, catching flame –

spreading like hungry gossip.

Inflammatory rumours

blaze into headlines of fire,

snagging our gaze.

We try to turn away,

but too late.

We’re hypnotised.

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2014

Smooring the Hearth

The clock ticks towards

the midnight chimes.

The sands of the year drain away.

Sip your anaesthetic,

reflect upon all that has gone,

the deeds un/done, the words un/said.

Bank the fire down, my friend,

before going to bed.

The memories glow and fade

like the coal, slow time

locked in its fossil heart.

Each a dream, once cherished,

come morn, a pail of dust

to be scattered on the dormant earth.

The day a squall of rain,

the nights come as fast.

The solsticed sun instructs us

to hiatus, to put down our tools.

Endless struggle, surrender arms,

as the Christmas ceasefire commences.

For a while we no longer

have to be anything.

Merely drop down into our being.

It is okay, friend, we can stop buying.

We can stop pretending to be nice,

so desperate to be loved back,

to be popular. For surely,

this is the measure of success.

That, and how much you own.

What you can show off to visitors,

the guests guessing your soul

from what’s on your shelves.

Shallow the depths of society’s

criteria. As though our lives

are no more than a lifestyle magazine,

a trending meme.

The fire dies down,

and what is discarded

slips through the bars of the grate.

Leaving the sine qua non of embers –

the truth only found

at the eleventh hour,

say, on the eve of execution,

when we face the cold, naked fact

of our mortality, our swift sparrow-flight

the length of a mead-hall.

Yet still, we bank the fire down –
thanking the warmth and light it has

bestowed, its borrowed grace –

in the hope that come dawn,

the last star can rekindle

our wintering king,

before it winks out

vanishing with the night.

31 December 2013

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2014


Bard on the Box

Poems on Youtube…

Summer’s Wake


The Wheel of the Rose

Song of Wandering Aengus

Phone Tree

Black Dog Halt

The end of the line

The end of the line

This is the end of the line.
A station without a railway
— no tracks lead to it now,
only a hollow-way of trees
and hedges, nettles and
ferns. A line of butter-
cups await to alight,
but their golden freight
is unwanted, except by
insignificant insect
life. A sign declaims
its former importance,
like a fading star on some
seaside billboard, an end
of the pier show that nobody
wants to go to.
The poplars sigh and shed
their summer pollen. Empty
are the platforms. Once
this place would have rang
with the slam of carriage doors,
a station-master’s whistle,
cries of greetings and fond
farewells, of beautiful ghosts
bound for Bowood. Then,
the engine would shrug
its iron shoulders, and shunt
the mundane away, the
shadows in the smoke
vanishing in the air.
Castlefields, near Calne

Castlefields, near Calne

Castle Fields
In the soft fields
I saw a thousand reasons
to be glad. In the plentitude
of buttercups, a treasure
more priceless
than I could spend.
The time-twisted willows
delight in the merry brook
which chuckles by,
smiling to itself,
while I stand watching
a heron, scrying the depths.
The pulsing grasses,
the neglected track,
the sun breaking through
the pall of clouds –
all seemed about to speak.
Lift my heart, number my blessings,
praise this day, they seemed to
whisper, if I but heard, and
had not walked away.
Writing by the shores of Loch Maree, Highlands, Summer 2012

Writing by the shores of Loch Maree, Highlands, Summer 2012

Song of Taliesin

by Kevan Manwaring – filmed in Scotland – view here

And written while a guest at the Castle of the Muses…

*  *  *

House of the Moon

by Kevan Manwaring

For Thomas & the Muses (and all guests & residents of The Castle of the Muses)

Mnemosune (Greek); Mnemosyne (English) was the Goddess of Memory and Mother of the Muses.

Her name means the ‘House of the Moon’.


Hail to the Daughters of Memory,

to the Daughters of the Back of the North Wind –

here in their northern temple,

the Castle of the Muses.

High in the Lowlands,

along a deep and winding lane,

beyond Rest and Be Thankful,

the white noise of the city,

the psychic threshold of Erskine Bridge,

the flanks of Loch Lomond.

A long road north-by-north-west,

into the wild

trusting in Fate –

three to be precise –

The sacred trinity
of Eve’s tree.

Before there were nine, there were three.

Before there were three, there was one.

From Belas Knapp to Long Meg,

the Three Sisters to Kali’s Ness –

following the Serpent Paths of the Goddess.

To the unlikely lanes

of Loch Goil, where

normality runs out.

Here, the castle appears,

caught in a late sunbeam –

the last station of the Celtic twilight.

Angle of incident, the isoceles of

the imagination – where another paradigm intercepts

our own modality. A crack in the door,

too narrow for most to discern.

A druid’s portal. The Door of the Derwydd.

You kill the engine,

after a long day’s ride,

and the effect is euphoric,

a pilgrim’s sacred high,

hard won from the road

the first Goddess you must love

to reach here,

invoking Elen of the Ways,

to guide you safely to your destination.

To this destiny’s nation.

The grandeur of the loch,

the soaring mountainside,

the space and peace,

embraces you like a

long lost relative.

Patiently waiting

for you to arrive.

Prodigal, prodigious, progeny

journey’s son; waydaughter;

You have been travelling here

all of your life.

And when you finally get here,

you have all the time in the world.

At the top of a steep gravel lane –

a question mark seeking an answer –

a warm welcome awaits.

Bards and druids; mystics and warriors,

await – old/new friends.

Kindled spirits,

a Fellowship of Peace.

Here, you will find what you bring;

discover what you already know;

release, to receive;

give, to let go.

A maze of wisdom,

a hall of broken mirrors

  • the Grail lies hidden in plain sight.

Amid the many cups. Take your pick.

The gates of horn and ivory entice,

the doorways to many worlds,

the hearth of the heart.

Home of the Muses. Conceived

in a flash of inspiration –

a bolt of Olympic lightning

released by Zeus in a paroxysm of pleasure –

a nine-night stand with Mnemosyne,

Goddess of Memory.

She doesn’t forget.

A blink in the eye of eternity.

A gleam in the eye of God.

The father of a pantheon doesn’t fire blanks.

From that union comes the three,

then the nine.

The triple aspect goddess

does the splits –

each daughter three

a fractal conception.

Mandelbrot triplets,


Hail, Goddesses of Inspiration,

who inspire mankind

to greatness in all the arts

and sciences.

You who warmed the Cauldron of Arthur

with your breath,

deep in the caer of Annwn.

Daughters of the Wind

the sacred breath, spiritus,

possessing the poet, the priest, the prophet –

blow upon me,

fill me with your awen.

Lift my quill, and let it fly,

across the page in your praise.

Let me worship at your temple,

a mundane shrine to each.

In your mind’s eye,

visit the Palace of Memory –

to each room a muse.

To whom do you call upon?

Listen, and then choose…


First of all Muses

(but don’t tell the others I said so)

is Erato – for does not everything come down to love,

the fundamental principle – the God(dess) Particle,

binding Creation together?

What is the manifest universe but the

ultimate act of love?

Let us woo Her flowers and words,

with wine and chocolate

dark and seductive.

Priestess of the Sensual –

love in all its forms

and names – from a grope to agape.

The love a craftsman has for his tools;

an artist for his medium;

the marriage of a maker with his Muse.

A relationship no one can come between.

Let us call to Her

to help us in all matters of the heart –

to navigate the subtle web of relationships,

to see with the eyes of the heart,

to love kindness, gentleness, sensitivity.

As well as wild passion, crazy abandon,

reckless acts of amorous intoxication.

To Her we bring heady bouquets of orchids,

a swoon of intoxication scents and colours.

Let us win Her with our sweetest words,

with the lyric sublime, soaring songs.

Let Her open our heart like an oyster shell

  • give Her the pearl of your deepest desire.

She will break you open.

You will fall for Her; be a fool for Her.

And when she is finished with you

perhaps you shall know wisdom.


Hail to Urania, Goddess-Muse of Astronomy

and all the natural sciences –

here, in this temple of work, of industry.

The office-space of the institute.

The captain’s chair,

ladder leading to the meditation chamber,

and upwards to the stars.

The turret of vision.

But first, let us be down to Earth –

let us brew strong coffee,

and get down to business!

The hour is late,

and there is much to be done.

The filing and compiling,

refining and finishing,

the connections and communications.

If there was a Muse, of the World Wide Web,

the ghost in Tim Berners-Lee’ machine,

this woud be Her –

reaching across the planet

at light speed,

a billion alignments,

synapses firing

across cranial-continents.

Constellations of classical consequence,

let the scientists and astronomers

the far-seers near and far,

be guided by you with humility.

If they glimpse to the heart of Your Mystery,

let them be filled with awe.

Let them see the star inside themselves –

the cosmos inside the man,

and know,

As Above, So Below.


Hail to Calliope,

goddess of Epic Poetry

the grand narratives of Homer and Ovid,

the master storytellers of every land –

here, amid the stacks of books and papers

on economics and politics,

shelves sagging with the weight

of history, of great minds,

and deep themes.

No triviality here – whimsy is exiled.

This is a place for profundity,

for thinking big.

And bigger, outside of the box.

Take a reality detox.

It doesn’t have to be the way it is.

Other worlds are possible,

with the active ingredient of imagination.

Leaven it with vision.

Let it rise in the oven of love.

Design your new system.

Change the world. Rearrange. Reboot.

Begin again. Take it’s mad song,

make it better.

But don’t forget the past.

Learn from history, from tragedy,

that must never be repeated.

Fight for what is right,

until evil is defeated.

Let the People be the Victor,

not the Dictator.

Let myths be the virus,

to bring down the tyrants.

Calliope, grant us your grace.

To complete our own Hero’s Journey.

To return with the Elixir

that will Heal the World.


Melpomene, Muse of Tragedy.

We come to greet you,

clad in dark attire,

wearing widow’s weeds,

faces covered in ashes,

the mask of sorrow,

weeping for the world.

The vast tragedy of it all.

Yet seeing the beauty

in every small miracle,

the heaven in the disaster zone.

O, Melpomene, let us sing your goat-song,

so we do not forget.

So, we remember and honour.

Work through our grief,

dance our sorrow,

and let go when we’re done.

Move on, move on.

Let not our grief become our identity.

It is only a mask, a costume,

for the dans macabre.

The sun still shines, the birds still sing.

The world still turns, saying begin! Begin!

Aid us to heal conflict,

to bring peace

through understanding, through empathy.

Time to stop playing soldiers,

time to put down our guns.

Time to dismantle the warheads,

time to defuse the bombs.

Melpomene from your deep heart

bring peace, end suffering.

You know the depths of humanity’s sorrow,

listen and release it. So.


O, Polyhymnia – sing your hymns abundant!

To all religions, all faiths, all paths and ways.

Open your heart to all true seekers.

Your songs carry the pilgrims

up all sides of the mountain.

Raise us to higher lands.

Help us to be closer to the Great Creator.

Through prayer and poem,

incantation and chant,

liturgy and mantra.

Through all sacred words.

that exalt the praises

of Spirit.

Let us resurrect the Perpetual Choirs.

Strike the tuning fork that will

bring harmony to all

corners of the world.

Let us commune in silence

to hear your song.

Light the candle

and sound the gong.

Speak from the heart

prayers of beautiful truth.

Thanking you for this day

and every day.

Guided by the world’s mythologies;

by the saints and sages;

let us create Heaven on Earth –

peace everlasting throughout the ages.

Let all heartfelt prayers be heard

and answered.

Let the Sword of Peace,

the Circled Cross of Truth,

be carried by your Warriors of Love.


O, Clio – Muse of History

of Time’s chronicle –

a scroll unscrolling back through the centuries.

Let us study your pages,

learn from the past’s folly and wisdom,

the triumphs and the tragedies,

of Man – nature’s child, run amok,

playing at being King of the World.

Here, in your temple

let us learn the lessons from the chroniclers.

A place of study and reflection.

A lofty mountain summit

from where one can get a perspective.

Eagle-like, the far view.

A gaze that penetrates the wall of time.

Here, the volumes of vision

are catalogued, the undying efforts

of those who carry the Flame of Peace.

A tray of tea things,

a desk of curved wood,

a lamp spotlighting

the scholar’s work.

Dictionaries, biographies, encyclopaedias,

compass the world’s knowledge.

A small red paperback sits, waiting,

to be noticed. Pedagogy of the Oppressed.

This is a room Che Guevera would have

been comfortable in – sitting with his army boots up,

smoking a large Cuban stogie,

planning his next campaign.

The ongoing liberation

of humanity.

Viva la Revolution!


O, Euterpe, Muse of Music,

soothe us with your sweet tunes.

Soften our hearts,

make them soar.

Lighten our souls,

play the Three Chords

of Joy, Sorrow and Sleep.

Paint your colours of sound

in hues of harmony

and discord.

Vibrations of the spectrum,

the wave of the rainbow.

Seduce us with the ear and the eye,

connosieurs of the world’s beauty.

And the arts which celebrate it –

sketches, paintings and engravings,

sculptures and frescoes,

prints and photographs.

Let the senses drink in,

the deep spirit.

We are beings of colour –

each chakra,

a paintwheel of pure pigment,

that we dip the brush of the day in.

We are what we shine.

The ultimate works of art,

the ongoing masterpiece

of Creation.

Reality, the canvas

upon which we compose ourselves.

O, Muse guide our hands –

make each day a work of art.


Ah, Thalia – your shrine feels like home.

Muse of the Word – spoken, written, heard.

You wear the comic mask, yet are far more.

Here, you are patroness of all literature,

of the mercurial element of language.

Here, all poetry is praise,

and the play’s the thing

to pique a monarch’s conscience.

Yet there is lightness too.

Dolls and clowns, line your windowsill.

Reminding us of the serious business

of living lightly,

with humour, and grace.

Sink into the armchair

and pick your book

from the teetering stacks –

a Glen Coe of collected dreamings –

towering over you.

Don’t take one from the bottom

unless you want to start an avalanche!

Buried in words. Where to start?

Trust in serendipity.

Your hand will alight on the right book for the

right time.

This is a library to while away a

winter with.

Steep yourself in ink;

soak in verse, in novels and plays.

And let inspiration well up.

A place to hatch a masterpiece.

To dream up a magnum opus

or the collected works of anonymous.

And discover the true meaning of life,

the simple art of happiness.


O, Terpsichore, Muse of the Beautiful Movement

of the swinging and swaying hips,

the toss of the hair,

the line of an arm and a leg,

graceful and fierce,

balletic belladonna.

Here, your spirit is honoured

with the dance of flames

in a merry hearth.

With the the sublimity of candlelight,

the peace flame burning perpetual

and the frivolity of fairy light.

Let your presence be invoked

with many instruments –

with harp and guitar,

didg and djembe,

bodhran and harmonica.

Let the fingers dance over the strings,

and over the keys of night and day.

Here, let the peace pilgrims gather

to share their heart-felt words and songs.

Flags of the worlds

adorn the walls, inviting all nations

to gather in the dance of peace.

Hats of witches and warlocks,

are perched on the bannisters

awaiting the players for the Midnight Masque.

Dirk, hard at work,

cooking up a banquet in the kitchen.

David, on the knight-shift,

cutting the logs, gathering kindling,

creating an ambience fit for a goddess.

And every guest offers their blessing.

Tipsily, we wassail you, Terpsichore –

with a hiccup and a stolen kiss.

Let us raise the Farewell Cup,

and toast the fellowship, enduring,

the winding road calls us

may we meet further along the Way.


Shining in the centre, the Lord of Light,

Apollo – strum your lyre

high on your rocky crag,

communing with the eagle

on your Scottish Parnassus.

The Muses’ lover and conductor,

pupil and instructor.

Around him they dance,

like the Nine Ladies to the Fiddler.

What is a Muse without an admirer?

Without someone to inspire?

He is the Rhymer to the Queen of Elfland;

Orpheus to Eurydice; dancing the ancient dance –

his melody holding open the Gates of Death,

staving off oblivion – so something survives of us.

His Art the ultimate Act of Love.

It was said Apollo journeyed north for the winter,

to a temple on the Isles of the Blessed – there to dance

the dark months away, to the rhythm of the moon.

Here, in its house,

where peace is forged; and pilgrims



Kevan Manwaring


Hare Heart

Heart on a hair-

trigger – wild-eyed, twitching.

Dashing here, there.

Seeking, sleekily.

Caught between the

carrot and the stick.

Which to choose, which to lose?

Shadow-boxing –

projection versus reality.

Wanting wantonly

life’s thousand and one temptations

and ten thousand distractions.

A modern soul suffering

from priority anxiety.

Spoilt by choice. Information

overload. Channel surfing

with unconscious motor action.

Conditioned lab rabbits.

Nibbling, nibbling – what

was it I was looking for?

Cursed with the awareness

that there is always more.

Never still long enough

to realise that there

is always enough.

Kevan Manwaring

April 2012

Racing the Dark

Riding home on New Year’s Day

in the remaining light

– chasing the dusk –
after a fiery sunset,

an orange band

sandwiched against bars of deepening blue.

Trees, ink blots

stark against the winter sky.

Frozen spectres of shadow

straight out of Rackham,

a Northern European folk tale.

Absolute concentration

on the road, the line of a bend –
scanning for ice, for gravel,

the fata morgana of a diesel slick.

The grit spreaders are out,

leaving a chancy seasoning

on the macadam.

The cold hits you like an icy fist,

encroaching through the layers.

The outriders of frostbite

creeping up the fingertips,

inveigling themselves into toes.

Use of controls –
difficult; reactions –
sluggish. Can survive only
so long – before the
numbness wins.



witnessing the austere beauty

of it all.

Life, stripped to its essence,

its core truth.

Day One of a new decade,


The road unribbons before me,

full of possibility.

To be riding into the future

on New Year’s Day –
steering my destiny.

Turning the wheel

into tomorrow.

The darker it gets,

the brighter we become –
shining in the night.

We race against the dark –
Death always at our heels,

but he won’t win the race

this day.

Kevan Manwaring

From The Immanent Moment, Awen 2012

The Immanent Moment by Kevan Manwaring, Awen 2011


Award-winning photo taken by Tim Platt

Summon lightning
and the thunder comes.

Kundalini rpm.

The dragon wakes,
flexes chrome muscles,
snorts hot breath.

A sneer on its lips,
a glint in its eyes.
A flick of its tail
and it’s off.

Trace pattern on retina.
The past a ghost of dust.

A roaring blur –
nothing but wind, vibration, a visor view.

The road unravels,
is devoured.

Finding peace in motion,
fully present –
now, now, now.

Never more alive
than on the cusp of death.

A knife’s edge –
riding the blade.

Into the unseen.

The road unmade
until you ride it into

From The Immanent Moment, by Kevan Manwaring, Awen 2011


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