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the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.
best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.
dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low
over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.
all is dust, as dust we have become.                 slow.
grey.
so in the mist of memory my 15 minutes passed  without concentration and went indoors after
one way,
and  another.

up poole hill
or down.

you kissed me.
i have the same,
usually, i felt like
a change today.
tidy beach
soft sand and honest stones
to be fortunate here
so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe
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