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May 2015
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.
Beware, beware keep your garden fair,
Let no man steal your thyme
Marie-Chantal
Written by
Marie-Chantal
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