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April 2018, vol 14 no 1

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Gerry Jacobson,


I hear your squawk O White One although I cannot see you. What do I see? Golden leaved poplars. Oaks turning copper-red. Cedars holding their green greyness. Roses all around me fading: deep red, pale mauve, light yellow, mottled orange. I sit on short cropped turf. The sun breaks through. My body sinks. Eyes are closing. Limbs splay out, stretch and curl. Embrace the Earth. Turn my cheek to smell its grass-ness. Sun burns through my skin. I hear you. I hear your caw, O Dark One.

lingering . . .
the path ahead
in deep shadow