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I never get sick of the violets and greys

of evenfall.

Even so, I love the yellow splendours

best, the first flowers of the year.


The suffering is, there; soft, a clean score

that sparks memory, trembling the years;

the scent  of hair.  My sorrows


are bitter, hard; to bear: friend,

I’ve nothing, no way to tell it, but this

.  I’m no

host, I know, but a good man

‘s welcome here.


6 November 2015

4 thoughts to “suffering”

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