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THE
FOUR SEASONS
Spring
The
yellow sun is in the leaf,
the
birds tweet their bills.
Time
for a pack on my back,
feet
on the hills.
Summer
In
day-shadows all the greens
pile
up in sleep.
The
evening drizzles a red-rose light
on
bark and leaf.
Autumn
It
is not Sunday
for
the teacup under
or
the rust under
the
foundations.
Tomorrow
came
yesterday.
Winter
Chark
chark chark
the
bird like a raw wine
in
the day’s throat.
White
welded to white
as
the East
grinds
over roofs.
Alan
Marshfield
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