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Contents Page: Oct 1, 2011, vol 7 no 3

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Dawn Bruce

Cycle

Hand in hand, dad takes my five-year-old self down to the beach. Pre-dawn and all about is strangely grey. The waves swish in, swish out, like breathing, and the sand is cold. I snuggle against his woolly jacket and wonder…

Light, soft and silent as a kiss, folds away the dark. The horizon, in damask rose, begins to bloom.

summer holiday─
middle-aged, I take my child
to find the sunrise

 

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