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January 2013, vol 8, no 4

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Robert Davey


Second trip to the clinic. We cross the sparsely peopled square. In the centre we pass a balloon seller. In vain he gazes around in search of a child. The mass of balloons turns slowly in the breeze.

We reach the ornate building at the far side of the square. As we climb the steps the wind freshens. Above the door a stone cherub gazes back at the clump of balloons now straining to escape.

journey home
a morula
floating free