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Thursday, 27 October 2011

About Eight


Stalled
Seven tall
Into the set of sun

Stopped
Then dropped
This war my course has run

No one knows 
These words I shout
No one understands

Always doubt
My words about
And no one gives a damn

So let me set it straight
Nothing clever, wait
Let me hesitate

Simply a celebration
Rows of poppies
In a wild garden

About eight; in the evening
A setting sun
In these first few days of summer

A photograph
You smile, we laugh
The light catches all the crinkles

We’ve sprinkled magic dust
On our generations rust
In time to mingle, to be singularly free