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Over the roof of the hide the seed plumes dance.
The hinged flap is up and he focusses
On the pool under the reed expanse.

Waders duck and scurry leaving prints
On the shining mud. His mind turns to the time
When leaning here he pointed out the red shank

Or the speck of the warbler, and felt fortunate.
Even the cold touch of her ring coming back
From the storm beach under the swooping terns

Could not break that. Now the sea has reshaped
The beach - taken the stones lower
And the hide, empty of her scent, echoes

With the perfect logic of her situation.
"I understand, believe me, I understand."
He shifts the binoculars to his other hand.


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By Cameron Self



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©Cameron Self 2007