Marion Jones

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An aged friend, snow in her hair, knocks at my door to say,
‘At nightfall, a man walks the boundaries of your property.’


‘I’ve never met him,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he means no harm.’


‘Lend me your torch,’ she says. ‘For my journey tonight.’
I offer my torch, a cup of tea, wish her well, and she leaves.


Outside my window, midnight footsteps crunch the gravel.
At my touch, the light switch crumbles. Without my torch,
I cannot see to settle my quarrels with the walker,
who waits behind my house.

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