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HOLLY JANE EWENS

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Resting place

 

She will come to this spot

when the wind has hushed its hollow tongue

she will come

to this spot and face the sea.

 

She will come to this spot in morning light

and listen; the squelch

of a bicycle’s rusted brake, the evolution

of rubber on stone.

 

She will wait

for a floor of gazanias to open

their orange mouths wide

under the cardinal sun.

 

It will be like watching birth;

miraculous and usual.

 

She will come to this spot

beside the green plastic bin

and swing the marram grass

under the picnic table.

 

She will look

at the sign

of children crossing

hand in hand a deserted road.

 

She’ll watch clouds cleave

and string light across a land

see cliff-faces

in lustre; venerabilis.

 

She will come to this spot

to watch life turn over.

 

She will pass

above coracle and ketch

her initials scratched into the table-top.

 

 

 

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