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The Cottage

The last bloom has gone.

The gate is closed.

This is a cottage of stories.

They are within rough-sawn walls,

closeted under a peak roof.

I want to go to each room,

feel the raised floral walls,

the give of the shiny floor.

Cobwebs cling. A starling is at home.

One day I will open the door.

It, I imagine, will creak

and dust will dance in a column of light.

I will see my imaginings,

my part in a story untold

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