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Talk of summer

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I resent the intrusion of its mornings;

the breach and flood of its uninvited joy.

I hate its slow procession to the solstice –

its spiralling heat, its lengthening of days.

When all was winter, the dawns were a quiet

plane: undisturbed darkness, a time before time.

I would lie half aware in the eigengrau,

listen to its soundlessness, its silent songs.

I would lie there and rehearse the pantomime 

of day – wake with light’s muted uncurtaining.

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