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from the windows saw,

the softest steam morning

on the mountain.

the promise of another

day in wonderland.
old story remembered  from the beach
that warm afternoon while all were playing
relaxing
the hunted tried not to sleep
there
for fear of being robbed or found
the mountains here

a home, a refuge plain

and simple things, the ordinary

become as sacred in our life
the clouds waiting as you
say
there are many to fascinate
give them names and fluff
becomes fact
a place one can recognise
there is a nice long beach and lovely views out to sea


the sea that is rising
was
the dream

the cloud
the quarry

water flows down this valley

wind blows round our houses
most of it works now,
memory plays a part,
when we look
to the mountain.
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