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October 2016, vol 12 no 3

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Susan King

Home


Again you say that you do not mind. I am not clipping your wings.

marked on maps
the faraway places
you will never see

If I were younger . . . you begin, and then your voice dies away. We are resting – as we often do during our morning walk – on a boulder at the far end of the beach close to where we live. You are staring at the horizon today almost lost in mist. I am looking down into the clear water of a rock pool beneath my feet.

a hermit crab
scuttles
back into its shell


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