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April 2013, vol 9, no 1

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Mary Dawson


He thought he would wait till winter. Till nights were short and dark. Till snow fell and Geese migrated. Till baubles sparkled and fires roared, with families gathered round. Till he could no longer stand the shrieking gulls inside his head. Till finally he realised, if he wasn't missed when still alive, he’d never be missed when dead.

His search for silence ends; when he stops to listen.