I'm trying for a nap, but
a missel thrush is hammering a shell
against the picket fence.
Reminds me that
the garden needs a tree, an apple tree,
for the boys to climb.
I close my eyes again and smell
the pie; the Sunday roast, and past pretence
I drift out to sea
to those times lying
beneath the silent pines where lovers spin
their dreams for you and I. |
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