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port isaac
is
it suntans or wallets
ambling
from side
to
downcoming village side
asks
the brass band
of
the burping army
of
salvation
this
relinquishing evening
with
its heart of gold
in
a celtic inlet’s
street’s
dale wearing
short
sleeves
the
dahlia sky
without
a stitch on
do
your children like
their
sips
your
amber wife
her
glass
your
lean belly
its
quart
of
contemplative ale
ask
the marigold notes
of
the instruments
do
you like our street
between
ebbed inlet
crabshell
dinghies
and
the vellum old tan
of
pubs
do
you like the stationary
souvenir
cows
on
the shelf of the hill
above
our bay
ask
the mellow trumpets
with
your hands upon
your
children’s arms
out
of your head
and
the angler’s thread
from
your heart of gold
relinquishing
as
you slowly permit the sun
to
slip
to
the saffron bottom
of
the cornish sea
Alan
Marshfield
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