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July 1, 2012, vol 8, no 2

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Dawn Bruce

Almost Winter

He folds his newspaper and puts it to one side. 'No one gone that we know.' He crunches on his marmalde toast, smiling to himself. The tabby stretches in a sunny spot.

His wife slips two eggs onto her plate, sunny side up, and joins him at the table. 'I'm going to pick the marigolds today to take them nice and fresh to Nance,' she says.

He eyes her eggs, sniffs and reaches for the teapot. The honey-coloured liquid pours into his cup, steam rising and disappearing. 'Old Bill looked a bit peaky at bowls last week. He'll hit the obit. column soon if he doesn't slow down. I was only saying to . . .'

'No, maybe the poppies would be better, a nice mix of colours. Yes that's it.'

The cat stretches again, licks his fur, then flops back down to sleep.

late autumn
sunlight warms
the brick wall