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ISSUE:  Autumn 1987

On the quietest days,
when the sea just hovers in the background
and the light is no particular color
I forget summer,
and my ordinary life comes back to me
like a letter that has been forwarded from home.
For a moment I long for the stricter air of winter
and I finger my winter worries one by one,
finally putting them away again, like beach stones
which will lose their color slowly
deep in my pockets.
Now a single gull swooping
too low over the porch
brings me back to myself
as the light turns bottle green,
and the salt spray roses drench me in scent,
and summer closes in again.


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