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Just The Wind

Just the wind, silted grey stone,

the gangly tree, tracks of animals

moving east and west, and

time has stood still.

The birds – shrill and clear,

across the wandering braids.

A home to lupin, pink and yellow,

glazed by teardrop rain, falling

to the blown rippled sand.

Plantain, rabbits’ feet, press

the earth: imprinted.

A riverbed. A home.

A landscape. A place to dream.

In the crying wind, flecked

stone footprints of time

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