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Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,

What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver

In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation

And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.
 Aug 2015 Lorna Doone
Mike Jewett
The lapping waves
Knock around moonlight:
Coalesce, ripple;

Kestrels in their nests,
Reflected faces; bodies still ring
-ing

— The End —