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Jan 2015
It snowed that morning,
scarring the end of something
pitied lost repression,
buried with each shy snowflake.

Uncontested petals from the
formerly statuesque tress, fell,
dancing their merry little
way to the vacant ground.

And a feather dropped from
an outcast swan, alone it
surrendered to the frigid
incapability of the terra firma.

On that Saturday morning,
nothing could have fallen,
as sporadically as I did,
for each of your rays.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
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