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RIDGE
MILL
A
stone’s throw down the field from the Ridge Mill
where
he’d grown man and boy, ran a brook
in
which he and his young wife would bathe
in
poor moonlight when they were first wed.
She
liked the solitude, so she said,
setting
her easel to paint the cave,
the
bare farm sheds where the signposts stood,
the
gale-tormented thorn, the parched hill.
...
(For full text see
the Kindle ebook The
Nature of Things (Collected Poems) by Alan Marshfield)
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