dear friends had gentle hearts

Sunday, 19 June 2011

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Blown Away by Patrick Cave

There is no standing still
In this high weathered place.

The sweet gale tugs,
Like infant fingers, at the cloth
Where your body hides;
Hurries you along;
Beheads the flowers so that they
Brush your cheek;
Brings bitter brine
To blind you, and
Gritty, scented loam
To choke you.

Let go.
Be blown away.
Be free.

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Sunday, 19 June 2011

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