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Jul 2016
Autumn drops from the spit of summer.

It is brown, well-mealed,
perhaps a little burnt;
its plush resplendencies are gone,
its fruits are split.

That spring, that summer
grimace in a scattering of husks, a wizened apple,
is unbearable;

and at the core:
pipped deaths, abbreviations, futures going hard.
This poem was written for a miners' Eisteddfod, and liked!
Jonathan Finch
Written by
Jonathan Finch  Thailand
(Thailand)   
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