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April 2018, vol 14 no 1

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Diana Webb

Traces

When I set out up the bumpy alleyway towards the town just after dawn on a winter's day I never know what I may chance upon so the familiar tarmac path becomes the terrain of a mystery trip sometimes behind the swish of a squirrel's tail sometimes the trace of a snail until . . .

ripples
over a puddle
robin song

 


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