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ISSUE:  Autumn 1931

Dark night.
Creeping cold.
Over the bold
Crest of the hill
The chill Moon, bright,
Looks down on sycamores writhen and white,
Above black water.
Cold, blank And cold Is the old
Wall of the mill That still Stands, dank
With dew, oozing and sliding down to the bank.
Into black water.


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